


The Wages of Compassion

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Spark Bond, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 106,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vortex is mortally wounded in battle, and only a spark bond can save him. First Aid can’t bring himself to walk on by, and ends up making a drastic and life-changing decision. </p><p>A dark and cruel tale of desire, coercion and loss. </p><p>CONTAINS: spark bonding, robotic gore, violence, sexual themes, explicit consensual and non-consensual sticky and non-sticky sex, coercion, dark themes, character death, murder, tentacles, behaviour modification, reprogramming, some humour. Includes multiple side pairings, and is one of the most self-indulgent pieces of id-fic I've ever written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially begun as a response to this kinkmeme prompt: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=6738313#t6738313, but it took on a life of its own.

“You can save me,” Vortex rasped. He looked up at First Aid; the Autobot was gorgeous as ever. Even on this mess of a battlefield, with his shoulders slumped and his hands hidden in the remains of Vortex’s chest. Vortex’s lips twisted in the cruellest of smiles. “But you won’t.”

First Aid remained silent, focused on his work. A ragged hole sat where Vortex’s primary fuel line should have been, and his throat burned. There was another hole in his chest, blunt-edged and hung with droplets of metal that had been molten only a short while before. His spark was exposed; it felt odd, a weak flutter of energy in the cold Earth rain. His joints were full of mud, his rotors broken.

His laughter was hoarse. “Enjoying watching me die?”

“Of course I’m not,” First Aid said, and the words emerged harsh and broken. He wiped the rain from his visor, and re-engaged his vocal processors. “But I can’t save you. I’ll make you as comfortable as I can, it’s… it’s all I can do.”

“Sure it is,” Vortex groaned. He heaved his body from the muck only to have the hydraulics cut out halfway. The crash shuddered through him, and little gouts of lubricant sprung from freshly severed lines. He didn’t have long, and he knew First Aid would never save him, but if he could break the medic before his spark guttered out, then his death might have some meaning. “You know there’s a way,” he persisted. “You just don’t want to. Spark to spark with a Decepticon’s too much even for you.”

“It’s not that!” First Aid cried, and he’d never looked as desirable as he did in that moment; filthy with energon and dark with soot, streaked all over with the fluids of dying mechs. His hands, oh his hands were beautiful, wracked by the slightest of tremors as he dipped them again into Vortex’s open chest to clamp yet another ruptured hose. He swallowed, his engine stuttering and his optics giving an odd little flicker. “I’d save you if I could. I’d do the same for anyone, faction doesn't matter.”

Vortex wanted to seize him, hold him, pin him to the floor and tease open his every panel. Show the medic exactly how tantalising he was.

And he would have, if approaching death hadn’t stripped the strength from his limbs. All he had left were words, spat out as his spark waned and his final few drops of energon burned up faster than ethanol in a furnace.

“Liar,” he snarled, and First Aid winced. “You’re just waiting for me to die. So much for Autobot compassion. I hope you’ll remember this for the rest of your life: you just stood by when you could have done something. Another Cybertronian is lost for eternity and it’s _all your fault_. Well, waiting’s all you need to do. Two breems and counting…”

Half a joor had passed since Vortex had been shot out of the sky, and half a breem since First Aid had stumbled upon him looking for Autobot casualties in the wake of the battle. The medic had been unable to pass him by.

Vortex knew he was dying. He’d known since he rolled with the momentum of the crash, and a jagged shard of shrapnel had pierced his shoulder. It had ripped sidelong through his spark and ruptured his primary fuel pump, finally coming to rest jammed in his broken transformation cog. His personality component was compromised, only another half joor until irretrievable data loss. First Aid’s presence was one last, long glimpse of worldly pleasure before oblivion, or the Pit. Vortex’s twisted smile softened; it couldn’t be as bad as the Detention Centre.

“All right,” First Aid said, and Vortex’s visor flickered as his optics recalibrated. His audials must have begun malfunctioning.

But the medic was shuddering, his vents working hard. “'I'm sorry,” he said. “You don’t deserve to die like this, and I _can_ save you, I…” He choked on his words, fingers fumbling at his hip. “I’m just scared, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be. I know what to do. I’ve just… I’ve never done anything like this before.” He paused, fixing Vortex with as stern a gaze as Vortex could ever imagine him giving. “You’re right,” he continued, his voice strained, but determined. “A bond is the only thing that has a chance of saving you. But you do realise that if I do this, it’s permanent?” His interface hatch swung open. “I have to give you the chance to change your mind.”

Permanently bonded to the medic? But that would involve a hardline interface. For a moment Vortex thought he might already have died and gone inexplicably to the Matrix. Then the countdown to deactivation again made itself known.

“I want to live?” Vortex hazarded, thinking only of the chance to be connected to First Aid. “Not changing my mind.” His voice rasped worse than ever. The air in his vents was caustic, humid; each cooling intake stung. But it didn’t matter, none of it mattered – not the tight ball of agony that was his spark, nor the countdown to his permanent deactivation; not even the crackling blackness of energy starvation as it threatened to overwhelm his vision. Nothing mattered except the medic.

First Aid nodded. He unrolled his cable and hooked them up, as the seam down the centre of his chest began to split. Vortex bit back a moan; how long he’d wanted the medic, and now here he was pressing his connector into Vortex’s port, so defiant in his determination to do the right thing, giving himself to save his enemy.

“I’m going to raise your head,” First Aid commented, an astrosecond before he did. Another connecter slotted home, this time in the medical port at the back of Vortex’s neck. “Your spark’s too weak for unaided direct contact, I’ll need access to your CPU. Lower your firewalls please.”

Vortex complied, a small part of him wondering whether the medic really was there. Perhaps he was hallucinating, and this was the last ditch attempt of his dying mind to give him something nice before he went.

But no, the brush of those fingertips over his interface panel was nothing if not real. Then a gentle shudder as First Aid initiated an energy transfer, and a tickle as the medic slipped past Vortex’s inactive defences.

‘ _Deactivate combiner protocols_ ,’ First Aid instructed, and his voice was no longer a weak verbal stutter against the background of Earth’s breezes, but a strong and reassuring presence in Vortex’s own CPU. ‘ _It’s only temporary_ ,’ he added. ‘ _This shouldn’t affect your gestalt bond_.’

Vortex did as he was told. His vision flickered, fighting the growing dark to take in as much of First Aid’s frame as he possibly could. So tempting and touchable, and so very close. He tried to raise his arm, and got as far as resting the back of his hand against First Aid’s knee.

To his surprise, First Aid took the hand, briefly, and squeezed. ‘ _You’ll be all right_ ,’ he said, and Vortex got the impression that was an automatic response independent of the tingling, rippling presence spreading through his circuits. First Aid spoke again, ‘ _Initiating spark subroutine alpha fifteen point three nine eight_.’

Vortex’s spark flared, and he screamed. Purple light speared up, staining the Autobot’s chest and gleaming back from his visor. The energy transfer hummed, and he felt it would have invigorated him were it not for First Aid controlling the flow; everything went to his spark, and nothing at all to his frame.

‘ _Ten astroseconds to contact_ ,’ First Aid informed him, and Vortex could only watch, rapt, as the Protectobot’s armour parted to reveal the fierce blue glare of his spark. Then First Aid’s hands were inside him again, stroking the outer casing of Vortex’s own spark, dancing over controls Vortex had little idea about and had never thought to test.

‘ _Almost there_ …’ First Aid’s voice wavered, his ventilation froze. His visor dimmed as the blue light grew, and there was nothing in the universe that could have distracted Vortex from the sight of the medic opening up to him so completely.

Then First Aid leaned down, and Vortex gasped at the press of the medic’s spark against his own. It was a struggle at first, like the push of two magnets, then the force fragmented, and Vortex would have squirmed if he could. His spark was dissolving, the core rising up, the corona splitting and swelling, little tendrils breaking off and merging with the other. It was the single strangest thing he had ever experienced.

‘ _Almost_...’ First Aid whispered, and Vortex couldn’t tell whether he spoke aloud or via the hardline connection. It was as though his entire consciousness was balled up and repositioned, placed within his spark. Everything else dimmed to nothing, but the heat and the pressure in his chest were inescapable. Hyperaware, he saw every flicker and tendril of plasma as though it was right there in front of his face. He felt every line of code as it formed, written in the writhing mesh of their sparks and fed back through his frame where it slithered into his personality component to form a whole new set of base protocols.

It changed him. Deeper than the loyalty programming, deeper even than the gestalt bond, it took his core needs and desires, and established new exceptions, new boundaries. And it did the same to First Aid; the knowledge came through loud and clear, amplified by the interface but carried by the developing spark bond.

It took over a breem, and at some point during that time the countdown to permanent deactivation ceased.

* * *

_I shouldn’t have done this._ First Aid tried to ignore the thought, holding it back from the connection by sheer effort of will. But it was tenacious. _This was the worst idea in the long history of bad ideas and it’s going to come back and bite me on the aft, so help me Primus._

He shivered, drained and queasy and wanting nothing more than to lean his weight on the injured Decepticon and go into recharge with their sparks still merged and the hardline connection pulsing with little trills of residual energy.

He couldn’t. Time to wake up, disconnect, close everything off carefully and safely. And then what? Abandon Vortex to the cruelty of Decepticon repairs? Flee back to Hot Spot and the safety of his own gestalt? Admit what he’d done?

If First Aid left him here, Vortex could still die. Human scavengers were sure to arrive, wading through the debris for any useful tech. An abandoned rotary would be easy pickings, particularly one in Vortex’s state. And even if the humans never found him, there was no guarantee anyone would come to help. First Aid had never heard of Decepticon compassion, although the phrase ‘if you can’t get back to base on your own, you don’t deserve to get back at all’ was too familiar by far.

Slowly, he eased himself upright. He winced as their sparks disengaged, the pain of parting leaving him raw and tender. Vortex hissed, his tail rotors clattering against his arm.

“Sorry,” First Aid said.

Vortex murmured a reply, but First Aid couldn’t make it out. The Decepticon’s vocal processors laboured worse than before; they’d have to be replaced, along with a good portion of his internal workings, one leg, his rotors and most of his abdominal armour.

“Almost done,” First Aid said.

As soon as his spark had settled, he closed his own chest plates, and spared a moment to construct a field dressing for Vortex out of a strip of tarp and some adhesive from his emergency kit. It didn’t have to be strong, just to keep the weather out.

He didn’t disconnect them, though. Instead, he accessed Vortex’s communications hardware. There was no response. He tried again, urging the software to come online despite the damage to the equipment, but nothing happened. He couldn’t transmit, he couldn’t receive; he couldn’t even access Vortex’s database of comm frequencies.

‘ _You can re-engage your combiner protocols_ ,’ First Aid spoke through the connection.

“Mmhmm?” Vortex looked up at him, exhaustion written in the slump of his head and the unfocused look of his optics. But he complied, and First Aid forced himself to remain within the connection as the gestalt bond unfurled, revealing the shadowy presence of four other personalities.

Taking as slow and steady a vent as he could, First Aid identified the gestalt leader. ‘Emergency pickup required,’ he sent, and stated the coordinates. The response was non-verbal; a wave of aggression carrying a snarl of confusion. First Aid repeated the message, and the confusion ebbed away, but the aggression remained along with a sharp and territorial determination.

First Aid pulled back, seating his consciousness again entirely within his own body, and tugged his connectors from Vortex’s ports.

“Leaving so soon?” Vortex whispered. His visor flickered as his optics struggled to reboot. First Aid shook off the knowledge – he didn’t want that kind of insight – and tried to isolate himself from the new bond.

“Your team’s coming to get you,” First Aid said. He gathered up his things, and got shakily to his feet. No time to run, not now; he could hear the approaching roar of a large airframe. Blast Off, and he can’t have been far. Were the others with him?

First Aid didn’t want to find out, but the terrain was open; if he fled he’d never reach safety in time. So he fell back to a nearby hill, hunkered down, and covered himself in the detritus of war.

Blast Off shot out of the sky. He transformed midair, landing crouched a half dozen mechanometers from Vortex. The impact of his feet sent mud flying. “Disgusting,” he sneered, then stood, shook one foot, and walked over to the heliformer. “You’re an idiot.” He nudged his team mate with his toe; Vortex laughed, but it was a weak sound.

“Give a mech a ride?” Vortex asked.

Blast Off lifted him easily and slung him over one shoulder. First Aid clenched his fists and fought to keep quiet. Blast Off was too rough; he needed to be careful, there was no telling what damage he could do throwing Vortex around like that. But then Blast Off engaged his root mode thrusters, transformed around Vortex, and shot up into the sky, so clean and smooth and quick that First Aid almost missed it.

He waited another hundred astroseconds, then ran off to find his team.

* * *

To say that Onslaught was displeased would have been an understatement. Vortex lay on the repair berth and followed his commander with his optics. The accusations came first, then the threats, closely followed by a wrenching pain as Onslaught tore off Vortex’s remaining tail rotors and threw them at Swindle.

Of course Swindle was there, standing by the repair bay door looking like he was pricing up Vortex for scrap. Hateful little traitor. If only they could swap one grounder for another – get rid of Swindle and convert First Aid from an arm to a leg. Now, that’d be a good plan.

“Are you listening to me?” Onslaught roared. But the answer didn’t matter. First Aid had accessed their gestalt bond, had been privy to their statuses and statistics and frag knew how much else. It was wrong, and Onslaught appeared determined to show Vortex exactly how wrong.

“Course he’s not,” Swindle muttered. “Crazy glitch. I keep tellin’ you, you should get him reprogrammed.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Vortex snarled, but it also didn’t matter. Onslaught had reached the end of his rage cycle and was entering acceptance. And that meant it was just the right time for a suggestion. “You could think of it as an opportunity,” Vortex said. He flexed the fingers of his left hand; he could still feel the press of the medic’s palm against his own.

“What?” Onslaught glared, and Swindle huffed.

“I’ll always be able to find him,” Vortex said, and carried on before Swindle could say that what was true for the ‘con was also true for the ‘bot. “Defensor’s never gonna sneak up on us. We can seriously frag around with their team. And when we get him over here, having our own medic’s gonna come in really useful. I mean slag.” He sniffed and glanced around at medbay. Or what passed for medbay in Combaticon HQ. The hangar-sized room looked empty; there were five berths, a frame for alt mode repairs, and a few dozen med-drones. Spare parts racks lined one wall, but it looked more like a warehouse than a medical centre. “They’ve got Hook on the Nemesis, and the rest of the Constructicons, and Dirge, and what’ve we got?”

Swindle snorted. “He’ll never work for us.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Vortex said, and flashed Swindle the kind of grin that always made the yellow mech scowl and turn away.

As for Onslaught, he’d gone quiet. His silent phase was always a little disconcerting; Vortex never knew whether he’d come out of it with both cannons blazing or with that light in his optics that spoke of a very good time to come.

After a full quarter of a breem, Onslaught spoke. “He’s your responsibility,” he said, and immediately held up his hand to silence Swindle’s objection. “You take him, you break him in and you keep him.”

“Break him, more like,” Swindle muttered.

“ _If_ he’s any trouble,” Onslaught continued, “you’ll dismantle him for parts. Understood?”

Vortex grinned. Good times indeed. “Perfectly,” he replied.

* * *

By the end of the second day, First Aid began to wonder if the consequences of his mistake might not be as bad as he’d anticipated.

After Blast Off had taken Vortex away, First Aid had gone straight to Hot Spot and turned himself in. He’d been fully prepared for court martial, for punishment. He'd aided the enemy, he'd made contact with Onslaught, he hadn't even thought to take Vortex prisoner; he couldn't begin to count the laws he had broken. But Hot Spot had just taken him back to Protectobot HQ, and had given him the rest of the day off.

Blades hadn’t been quite so sanguine when he found out, and neither had Streetwise, but the two of them had argued it out with their commander while Groove made First Aid stay in the rec room and watch the Discovery Channel until his optics blurred and he fell into recharge with his head in his team mate’s lap.

The following morning, First Aid learnt that there was to be no punishment. There would have been, Prowl explained to him by comm from the Ark, if he and Vortex had fraternised. As they weren’t lovers, and as Vortex could technically have been counted a prisoner of war at the time, taking such a drastic measure to keep him alive could only be seen as an act of compassion; admirable to a certain extent, if extremely unwise.

First Aid couldn’t help but think that a few rules were being bent for him, if not broken. It felt wrong, even if it was Prowl doing the bending. But he was grateful for it. As Blades said, only half in jest, the bond itself would be punishment enough.

It was a constant presence, similar to the gestalt bond but distinct from it. Every so often, it emitted a fragment of a thought, a hint of sensation. All natural, of course; the software was working as it should, and First Aid knew it would only get more frequent as the bond matured.

Nevertheless, he could ignore it for now. Vortex hadn’t tried to use it, and that’s what mattered. If the Combaticon was going to attempt to gain any advantage through it, First Aid assumed he would already have tried.

Perhaps he just wanted to forget all about it. First Aid certainly did.

* * *

“Admit it,” Blast Off demanded. “You planned it all.”

Vortex groaned and retched, head lolling over the edge of the repair berth. Today was hardly the best of days for his favourite team mate to start accusing him of something he wasn’t guilty of, but fervently wished that he was. The repair bots weren’t helping. Skittering around in his chest, they prodded and poked, and filled him full of vile, medical grade energon and bitter-tasting chemicals.

“I knew it,” Blast Off huffed, having apparently taken Vortex’s nauseous silence as assent.

“Didn’t,” Vortex managed. _Frag_ , his vocaliser was sore. And not in a good way. His tanks gurgled, their contents reacting with whatever the drones had made him swallow in a particularly horrific attempt to bring his energy levels up. Oh well, if he was going to be sick, why not aim it at Blast Off’s feet? Serve him right for being such an aft.

“I don’t believe you,” Blast Off said, and stepped back out of range. Fragger. The shuttleformer huffed again and glanced around. “I trust you’ll make him available to all of us?”

Now that was a lovely thought. Vortex snickered, then groaned as the vibrations rippled through his overfull reservoir, competing for his attention with the new simmer of charge in his interface circuits. If he had the focus to access his new bond, he’d certainly be repeating Blast Off’s words to First Aid. But he hardly had the focus to find the thing, let alone figure out how it worked.

“As a _medic_ ,” Blast Off snapped, then added, “You’re disgusting.”

Vortex moaned. “Stop making me laugh.”

* * *

First Aid dreamed he was being spiked.

His valve ached, and his circuits crawled. He needed to be filled, needed the thrill of connection, the hot friction of a good hard frag to bring him to overload. Legs spread and back arched, he clung to his partner’s shoulders and urged him to go faster.

He awoke with his covers open and his valve sensors firing at random, not to mention a measure of amusement at the profanity of his subconscious. He groaned and checked his chronometer. Sadly, there was no time to deal with his aching valve; there was barely enough time to get himself through the washracks and into medbay before Streetwise was due for his tune up.

The dream stayed with him through the day, as did the ache, and the lingering desire to invite someone to bend him over one of his own repair tables. But with the new bond, he didn’t feel comfortable mentioning it.

Not for the first time, he wished he had a regular partner. His mystery mech hadn’t been anyone specific – a helm similar to Fireflight’s, arms similar to Blades’, but no rotors or wings or tires to link it to anyone he’d interfaced with in the past – just a generic imaginary lover thrown up by his subconscious.

Still, it put a smile on his face, and helped distract him from the niggling, constant presence of the spark bond.

He didn’t link the two until that evening.

He rode the freeway behind Hot Spot, tarmac warm beneath his tires and the day’s heat radiating to caress his undercarriage. Lulled by the steady rhythm of their engines and the rolling miles, his mind wandered. His dream lover, Streetwise’s repairs, the gentle stroke of Groove’s hand on his back as he’d gone into recharge the previous night; images flowed freely through his processors. Onslaught’s anger at his presence in the Combaticon gestalt bond, Vortex’s amused disappointment that he was leaving. No, he couldn’t go there. It was enough that he’d saved the monster’s life, he mustn’t find it in himself to feel sympathy or regret.

Still, he should have taken Vortex captive, should have had him brought to the Ark for… for what? Therapy, First Aid supposed. Constructive reprogramming; the deletion of all those cruel, hateful impulses. It was drastic, and First Aid wasn’t certain it was moral, but what else could they do with a war criminal like Vortex?

As though prompted by the thought, the bond became active; a brief moment of pain and nausea and frustrated arousal. First Aid slowed, dizzy.

//You OK back there?// Hot Spot said, nothing but fond concern in his tone.

//Yes,// First Aid replied, accelerating again to catch up. //Yes, I’ll be fine. Just…// He couldn’t finish. Just what? Vortex was in severe discomfort, probably undergoing repairs, and suffering from the effects of a bond that hadn’t been physically consummated.

With a sudden clarity, his own unusually high drive to interface made complete and horrible sense.

This time First Aid rolled to a halt. Oh scrap.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are multiple side pairings, complete with explicit and implied sticky smut, and then First Aid gets a surprise.

Vortex lay on his front, sprawled over the repair berth. His new rotors turned slowly as he tried to summon the energy to move. Five days he’d been in repairs, five stupid wasted days when he could have been hunting down his medic. He groaned and tried to itch his throat.

A drone slapped the back of his hand, and another chirred in warning. Their meaning was clear: _Stop it or we’ll strap you down._

“Feel like slag,” he grumbled.

On the vid screen, Hook looked less than impressed. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m not coming over. Your drones are perfectly adequate, and your repairs are approaching 70%. Stop complaining or I’ll have them put you in stasis.”

“Ugh.” Vortex slumped, going limp. It didn’t help. Every few joors, the new bond served him a tasty little slice of what First Aid was feeling. Every taste made his spike pressurise faster than Swindle in a bank vault, and gave him a heady dose of crawling charge that he just plain didn’t have the energy to deal with. “Wanna frag,” he moaned.

“I’m sure you do,” Hook said. “Ah, Onslaught-”

Vortex turned to look, but the drone slapped him again.

“Out with it.” Onslaught walked up to the monitor. “What’s his malfunction this time?”

“On top of his repairs-related issues?" Hook shrugged. "Enhanced urge to interface. There’s nothing like a new bond to amplify certain needs.”

“Amplify?” Onslaught repeated, and Vortex was sure he caught a note of horror in Onslaught’s tone. “That’s all we need.”

“Yes,” Hook said. “Amplify. Meaning, as he cannot interface with his... _bond mate_ , he’s only going to get worse.” He smirked. “My professional recommendation is that you deal with this as a team effort. I’m sure you’re up to the challenge.”

“Not on the rations we’re getting,” Onslaught said, and Vortex pressed his face into the berth, his engine emitting a high and needy whine.

“ _Ons_ …”

Onslaught ignored him and continued to stare at the camera above Hook’s flickering image.

Eventually, Hook sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Nemesis out.”

“Ons, _please_ ,” Vortex tried again; scrap, his hardware was hot. The berth stuck to his armour, it was probably melting. His circuits felt like they certainly were, and his spike was beginning to rub itself raw on his cover.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t expecting Onslaught to grab him by the knees and drag him to the edge of the bunk. The repair drones chittered and beeped, but knew better than to get in the way.

“You belong to us,” Onslaught snarled, and Vortex sighed as Onslaught yanked his legs apart and scraped rough fingers across the heat of his valve cover. “No matter what else you’ve got yourself into.”

“Prove it!” Vortex lacked the wherewithal to raise his hips, but it didn’t matter. Onslaught seized his rotor hub, bringing his blades to an abrupt halt. He slid a hand under Vortex to lift him to just the right angle, then hauled him roughly back, straight onto his spike.

Vortex wailed, clinging to the berth as the heat and the pressure and the shock of the spiking sent him straight into overload. Onslaught clung tighter, thrusting deep and fast, cutting through the euphoria of climax to force the charge to rise again.

If he’d felt livelier, Vortex would have done something to reciprocate, but he didn't. And besides, Onslaught sometimes liked him passive.

“Say it,” Onslaught growled, through the clang of their armour and the creak of the berth.

“Yours,” Vortex whimpered, pressing his face again into the bunk. “Always, oh frag oh frag oh frag yours, _yes!_ ” The second overload tore through his circuits, leaving him shivering and tired and still gloriously full of Onslaught’s spike.

Another few thrusts, and Onslaught was done, but he didn’t let go just yet. His grip on Vortex’s rotor hub grew tighter still, and he leaned over to whisper in Vortex’s audial, “Whatever you do with your new toy, he isn’t team. You keep him out of our bond.”

Vortex tried drowsily to reply, but Onslaught was already leaving.

* * *

It didn’t matter how often First Aid locked himself in his closet and took a medically sanctioned half breem to deal with the charge, it just got worse.

Not that he expected any different. Any new bond demanded physical union, and not just once. Frequent connection had been considered essential to the proper development and functioning of a bonded pair. At least, when the software was first designed and used, back in the early vorns of the Golden Age.

Now, First Aid mused, it was merely a persistent and distracting symptom that he would have to deal with himself. If only self-stimulation worked, but it didn’t even take the edge off.

Frustrated, First Aid thrust himself into his work.

Around mid-morning, Blades showed up for his medical, an apology on his lips about his behaviour earlier in the week. First Aid hardly heard it through the rush of coolant and the whirr of his fans. After the check-up, and with his hands shaking and his armour discharging random sparks, he found the courage to ask Blades if he wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if he wasn’t busy and didn’t need to go somewhere else just at this moment, and if he wasn’t too put off by the Decepticon bond issue, maybe helping him out with an intimate and rather embarrassing problem.

Blades, as it turned out, didn’t mind. He didn’t mind with extreme enthusiasm, and for a whole half a joor, in which time they managed to knock over two trays of equipment, break a berth, and put a dent in the door of the supply closet.

It didn’t help.

Blades left satisfied and with a grin on his face that looked fixed to stay, but First Aid slumped on the broken berth beside the spilled tools, and sighed. His valve was sated, if sore, and his equipment thrummed with the last vestiges of overload, but his spark pulsed wildly and his wires still crawled with charge.

Defeated, he began to clean up, and ran a search of his internal medical database. It was a miracle he had anything at all on spark bonding. It had been a very long while since the last spark engineers had died, civilian casualties in the Decepticon-Autobot war. Ratchet and Wheeljack knew a bit, but their abilities ran to replication of known types, and not the development of entire new systems. Hence the Protectobots, like the Dinobots before them, had been designed and built with the standard model Autobot spark, a design that hadn’t changed in over four million years.

No-one in their right mind would kindle a spark during wartime that could bond, First Aid thought. Not if they had a choice. His creators would have removed the protocols had they been able.

He tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that he’d saved the life of a fellow Cybertronian. But then he remembered the glimpses he’d been given of Red Alert’s files when Starscream had first brought the Combaticons back from detention, and all sense of accomplishment evaporated.

The search of his database wasn’t exactly helpful either. Sure, the information was there, but none of it gave him a strategy for relief. The only way to dull the impulse to interface would be to consummate the bond, but that was – and would forever remain – impossible. First Aid couldn’t interface with a Decepticon; the idea was preposterous, not to mention illegal. And with that _specific_ Decepticon? Never.

But the newly forged software would keep pestering and pestering, so certain that he and Vortex needed to reinforce whatever link they shared that had caused them to bond in the first place.

First Aid wiped a cloth over the newly repaired berth, then left medbay in search of Hot Spot. He needed to talk this through.

* * *

“It’ll cost you,” Swindle said. He stood by the monitor, his greasy little fingers coasting over the controls. Just fidgeting, Vortex knew, nervous around him. And so he should be. But that didn’t stop the cyberweasel from taking full advantage.

“How much?” Vortex said. “I got all kinds of spare parts. Maybe some high grade.”

“Oh no,” Swindle said. His lips twitched, hiding a smirk. “You want my squishies to deliver your mystery package to Protectobot HQ, and you ain’t even gonna tell me what’s in it? That scrap don’t come cheap.”

Vortex fought the urge to punch him, and lay back on the berth. He hated it when Swindle was his only option. Sure, he could ask Blast Off or Brawl, but Brawl had already done him a big favour finding one of the things to go in the box, and Blast Off would just plain say no. Besides, they didn’t know squishies, and a squishy courier was the only way he could think to bypass Red Alert and get a package straight to the medic.

“How not-cheap?” Vortex growled.

Swindle’s optics gleamed. “I want that box of rubies you won off Astrotrain, and full use of your valve for the equivalent of one recharge cycle.”

“Frag you,” Vortex spat. Beside him, a repair drone bleeped a warning. “Slag off,” he snarled at it. Fragging Swindle was the last thing he wanted to do, even if the suggestion made his hardware hum and set a painful ache in his valve.

Swindle shrugged, and turned to leave. “You could always just fly it there yourself,” he said.

Vortex huffed. “Half a joor,” he said.

“Five joors,” Swindle countered. “And I get to tie you up.”

Oh frag no. “One joor, no tyin’ me up, but I’ll make sure you enjoy it.”

“All right,” Swindle said. “No chains. Three joors, and you gotta lay still.”

“Two.” Vortex shifted uncomfortably. “And no toys, gadgets, or any other scrap I don’t wanna see. Just you.”

“Two and a half,” Swindle said. “But yeah, all right, just me.” He approached the berth, and ran his fingers along the plasteel just next to Vortex’s thigh.

Vortex’s interface hardware burned. “Done,” he said. “And your squishies get it there quick, no fraggin’ around. No shakin’ the box, no leavin’ it somewhere stupid. Contents are time sensitive.”

“I can do that,” Swindle said. He leaned over the bunk and flipped a switch beside the monitor. “Let’s have a little privacy,” he said, as the light on the security camera died.

“You wanna collect _now_?” Vortex huffed and glared up at the ceiling.

“Why not?” Swindle said. “Wouldn’t want you wriggling your way out of paying me, would I?”

* * *

“So what do we do?” Hot Spot asked. He sat beside First Aid in the control room of Protectobot HQ. The medic tried not to fidget.

On the main monitor, Ratchet frowned. “Nothing we _can_ do.” He shrugged. “Red’s running up some extra firewalls for Aid, just in case the ‘cons try anything, but as for the bond… we just don’t have the expertise.”

“What about something to filter it out?" Hot Spot suggested. “A kind of spark dampener, perhaps?”

“No such thing,” Ratchet said. “And even if there was, it wouldn’t just cut off the spark bond, it’d cut First Aid out of the gestalt. These aren’t superficial protocols, these are written right into his personality component and his spark, just like the combiner software. They rely on similar subroutines and share a few million lines of code. You don’t change one without changing the other.”

“There must be something,” Hot Spot persisted, but Ratchet held up his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There isn’t. Our greatest ally here is time.”

“How?” First Aid squeaked. He gripped the arms of his chair, desperate not to start wriggling in his seat. Time seemed dead set against him, an eternity of intrusive physical impulses and shattered concentration.

Ratchet’s frown deepened. “Bonds are difficult,” he said. “Hard to program, harder still to reverse engineer, and impossible to erase. Gestalt bonds, spark bonds… and there were other kinds back on Cybertron. All sorts of allegiances and partnerships got written into spark coding. Most of it’s gone now – the slave programming, the symbiosis protocols for working with cityformers and Omega Guardians – all written out before the last of the coders died. We can programme new gestalts because the potential’s there in all our sparks. It’s the same reason spark bonds are still possible. But we can’t erase them. Sometimes though – and please don’t think I’m saying this is likely, because I’m not, but _sometimes_ – a bond failed. Sometimes, the code didn’t write itself properly, or there was a mistake in the initial merging process, or any one of a dozen problems cropped up that meant that the software just didn’t develop. With some mechs, it looked OK for a joor or a cycle or even a quartex, but eventually the code would go dormant and the bond would fizzle out." Ratchet sighed. “That’s our hope,” he said. “I don’t think we can rely on medical incompetence here, but Vortex was in storage for close to sixty thousand vorns. There’s every chance his spark was compromised, or the software degraded…” Ratchet wound down, as First Aid shook his head.

“I ran checks,” he said. “His spark was fine. There were differences between his and ours. They’re not the same model by far, but I didn’t find any abnormalities or, um, incompatibilities.”

“You could have missed something?” Hot Spot said, but it was clear he was speaking purely out of a desire to reassure; First Aid shot him a quick smile and reached for his hand.

“It’s rare,” Ratchet said, “but even perfectly healthy sparks sometimes failed to hold onto a bond.”

“How often?” First Aid said. He squeezed Hot Spot’s hand, and tried to resist the torrent of unprofessional thoughts and desires.

“In my whole career?” Ratchet said. “I’ve known it to happen twice. Which means it _isn’t_ impossible.” He evidently caught sight of their joined hands on his own monitor, because he managed a smile. “My advice is to carry on as you are,” he said. “Plenty of in-team interfacing, train as Defensor as often as you can, and keep on reinforcing the gestalt bond. Let me know if anything changes.”

“Plenty?” Hot Spot said as soon as Ratchet had signed off. First Aid couldn’t help but laugh. It was bleeding through. He could see it in the tension of his commander’s frame, feel it in the thrum of his energy field; his enhanced urges were contagious.

“Would you like to?” First Aid asked. His hardware had begun to ache again, and he couldn’t get his mind away from the image of straddling his commander’s lap, his valve full and their every cable connected.

In response, Hot Spot stood and gathered the medic into a warm and comforting hug. “If you would,” he said, and First Aid leaned up and kissed him.

* * *

It wasn’t so bad, Vortex thought. Not if he changed the settings on his optical input, turning Swindle’s yellow armour to red, blurring his face.

“Keep still,” Swindle snapped, and Vortex bit back a moan as the smaller mech thrust two fingers inside him, smearing the lubricant around. “And take your optics offline.”

“Frag no,” Vortex snarled, but he dimmed them anyway.

“And shut up! No talking.” Swindle withdrew his fingers and shuffled around on his knees. “No moving.” He leaned forward, the press of his spike searing against the valve rim. “Just lay there and take it.”

 _Then hurry up!_ Vortex thought, but managed to keep his vocaliser off. The happier Swindle was at the end of this, the more likely he’d come through on his side of the bargain quickly and without complaint.

At last, Swindle slid inside him. Vortex decreased the focus on his optics until Swindle was nothing more than a grounder-shaped blur. His valve nodes fired, charge racing, and he settled into a fantasy that it was the medic moving above him, touching him, sighing in pleasure as the hot friction sang along with the pulsing of their sparks. If only the medic had done that when he lay bleeding in the chilly mud.

But more tantalising still was the image of the medic under him, spiked and writhing, murmuring incoherent pleas as his hands clutched Vortex’s rotors and his valve rippled in overload.

The fantasy brought him easily to climax, and he found that he didn’t mind too much when it became obvious that Swindle wasn’t done. The friction helped ease the urgent, searing need, and left his mind a little clearer to think through his plan.

* * *

Days passed, and First Aid began to realise that he’d made a big mistake. Not just the spark bond, but the way in which he was trying to deal with it. The interfacing was wonderful, and he felt closer than he ever had to his team, but he couldn’t shake the notion that he was using them. It was a horrible thought.

“Comm if you need me,” Streetwise said, giving him a kiss on the back of the neck as he left for patrol.

It was the same from all of them – if First Aid needed them. It should be reciprocal, he thought, as he headed upstairs to the energon locker. He shouldn’t be such a drain on his team’s energy and time.

Not only that, but the other bond was beginning to strengthen. Insights into Vortex’s vital status, his moods and impulses, became more frequent and more intense. Still fleeting, thank goodness, but they caught First Aid by surprise, and influenced his own emotions and actions.

That morning, he’d caught a burst of violent arousal an astrosecond after Blades had walked into medbay, and had slammed the rotary against the wall and demanded to be fragged. He’d apologised, afterwards, and at length, but he still felt like a cog head. Even worse, Groove seemed to be picking up on it. He grew snappish if Vortex was angry, and sullen when the frustration bit.

Again, thankfully, it never lasted too long, but it was worrying, and First Aid wished he could find a way to prevent it.

He took a while with his morning cube, and was still lost in thought when the buzzer sounded to indicate that they had a delivery. He smiled; unpacking his new supplies would give him something to occupy his mind for a few joors. He took a long, calming vent, and headed off to the goods entrance.

It wasn’t his usual delivery agent.

“Good morning, sir,” the human said brightly. He held up a sheet of paper; an even larger box sat by his feet. It had a row of small holes near the top, and prominent ‘This Way Up’ and ‘fragile’ stickers on each side. “Please sign here.”

“Of course,” First Aid said. He fumbled with the page, the creases in the sheet were so tiny and the area for a signature was tinier still. Eventually, he managed a semblance of his name in English, and carefully passed the paper back. “These aren’t my supplies. Are they the videos Streetwise ordered?”

“I couldn’t say,” the human replied. He grinned up at First Aid. “I’m just the delivery guy. Have a good day, sir.”

First Aid watched him get back into his truck and drive away, then took the box back indoors.

It was too heavy for videos – and too large, Streetwise had only ordered five at the most – and the parts inside made a dull thud each time he moved, as though packed tight with protective plastics, just as his supplies should be. The box was smaller than he’d expected, and it didn’t smell right, but it wasn’t as though they were expecting anything else. All other mail got diverted to the Ark where Red Alert went through it before sending it on to its rightful owners.

First Aid took the box to medbay. He fetched an all-purpose knife and carefully slit the tape holding the top together. Just as carefully, he folded back the sides, and a pair of eyes stared up at him from the gloom.

“Oh!” He leapt back, dropping the knife, and almost lost his balance.

The box emitted a tiny sob. First Aid pulled himself together and opened it properly.

There was a child inside. Grubby and tear-streaked, a pale little girl in a ragged blue dress. She huddled in the corner, an empty bottle at her feet.

“Hello,” First Aid said softly. “I’m First Aid, I’m an Autobot. What’s your name?”

The child’s eyes brimmed. Her lower lip wobbled, and she looked up at him in terrified incomprehension.

Two breems later and First Aid was at the ambulance lot of the local hospital. The child was still in the box, still huddled, still silently crying; he couldn’t have risked taking her out in case his strong hands bruised her. She was scared of him, so he hadn’t transformed, but had walked her the few blocks to Saint Mary’s, keeping the box as steady as he could.

She obviously didn’t understand English, but she responded well enough to the nurse who lifted her out of the box and carried her away.

It was then that First Aid noticed the datasheet. That, and the second box, upon which the child had been sitting.

“There’s something else in there?” a human spoke. First Aid recognised her as Sergeant Zelenski, one of Streetwise’s human contacts.

“I’m not sure,” he said. He knelt and set the box on the floor.

Zelenski gestured to the note. “Is that in Cybertronian?”

First Aid nodded, but a crowd was beginning to gather; soon enough, the press would arrive. “Sergeant,” he said, “could we maybe take this elsewhere?”

Zelenski drove behind him back to Protectobot HQ. The building was still empty, although First Aid wished that it wasn’t. He tried not to worry too much about the little girl – humans knew best how to look after other humans – but he did feel responsible. Why in the universe had someone sent him a child?

“All right,” Zelenski said. “Let’s take a look.”

He lifted her onto a counter, and spread out the datasheet. It wasn’t paper, but thin and flexible silicate with a metallic backing. The words flickered, as though the sheet’s battery was on its way out.

“What does it say?” she asked.

“Um,” First Aid said, “it’s a little strange.” His fuel lines constricted. He tugged over a stool and sat down; now wasn’t the time to start getting dizzy. “It says, ‘You like squishies, right? It’s an orphan, so you can cool your overactive moral circuitry. We picked it up in Eastern Europe, you can call it whatever you like. Enjoy.’ Oh goodness.”

“Who’s it from?” Zelenski said.

“The Combaticons,” First Aid said. Vortex, he thought, but the less said about him the better.

“Wow,” Zelenski huffed. “It’s been a while since you guys took them apart, they sure can hold a grudge. But why a child? It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know,” First Aid said. Why indeed. “What will happen to her?”

“She’ll stay at the hospital for now,” Zelenski said. “We’ll try to track down her family, but it might not be easy.”

“Will you keep me informed?” First Aid asked.

“Of course,” Zelenski said. “You wanna open up that other box?”

First Aid didn’t, but he wasn’t about to deny an officer of the law. He located the all-purpose knife, and tentatively slit the binding. It fell open with a soft, papery sigh, and First Aid clapped his hand over his mouth. He felt as though he was going to be sick.

“So,” Zelenski said, “the ‘cons sent you a kid from halfway around the world and a beat up bit of metal and rubber?”

“It’s a primary fuel pump,” First Aid whispered, trying not to choke. Vortex’s primary fuel pump; the one he’d worked on when he was so sure that Vortex was about to die.

“Oh,” Zelenski said. “Like, from inside one of you? Does that mean someone’s been killed?”

First Aid shook his head. “No, this one was damaged. It’s been replaced.”

Zelenski leaned forward and gingerly prodded the metal. “And the Combaticons posted it to you. Like that’s not disturbing.” Her radio crackled and she exchanged a few words with someone First Aid didn’t know. “I need to get going,” she said. “I’ll leave you the note and the… part. I’m sure your people are more equipped to deal with that than mine are.”

First Aid nodded, and helped her down from the counter. When she was gone, he went back to the pump. It was clean, every trace of energon scrubbed away, and the metal oiled until it gleamed. Then he noticed the writing.

A line of glyphs marked a spiralling path around the inside of the cracked main chamber; they were so small he doubted Sergeant Zelenski would have noticed them, and so lightly etched into the surface that he wouldn’t have seen them himself were it not for the oil. Despite his disgust, First Aid tilted the pump to the light.

‘ _In your capable hands again_ ,’ it read. ‘ _Comm me, 4556.328.9, and tell no-one, or your next gift will be dead._ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comes with massive thanks to spacehussy, without whose help and encouragement this wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fun to write :D


	3. Chapter 3

First Aid prevaricated for a full three joors. He should have gone straight to Hot Spot, but the thought of that little girl huddled terrified in a box for goodness knows how long put a stop to that. She’d been alone in the dark, no food, insufficient water, nowhere to relieve herself except the diaper that she probably couldn’t take off. No space to move.

It was awful.

He couldn’t risk any more children being kidnapped and maltreated. Or worse, if Vortex carried out his threat.

First Aid shut himself in his closet and focused on his ventilation. Hot Spot would hear about the package, the child, the letter. But not the fuel pump. It was the only way. First Aid put the pump back in its box and buried it under a heap of spare parts. He hated secrets; they were almost the same as lies, and lying to his team was a terrible, cruel thing to do.

But one lie, against the life of a child?

Shivering, he made the call.

* * *

The longer Vortex had to wait, the more frustrated he became. Sure, it was the fun kind of frustration, a deep and tingly anticipation that made his rotors shudder and his engine purr. But it took second place to gratification every time.

He paced around medbay, surrounded as ever by the drones, disallowed the luxury of leaving, but no longer limited to the berth. Another thirty joors, Hook said, and he could resume active duty.

Thirty joors was forever, but he forgot all about it when the medic called.

//I took the bait,// First Aid said. //What do you want?//

//No ‘hello’?// Vortex said. //No, ‘how are you, I’ve missed you’?//

//No.// The medic sounded angry, determined. And a little afraid. //Tell me what you want.//

//I want to see you,// Vortex said, and focused on the bond. He could do with one of those little insights right about now, but the bond remained mute.

//That’s not possible,// First Aid said. He spoke quietly, almost managing to hide the way that his voice shook. //But I commed you, like you asked. Promise me you won’t hurt any more humans.//

Vortex snickered and picked up one of the repair drones; it wriggled in his hands. //Fragged if I’m promising that,// he said. //Did you like your present?//

//That wasn’t a present,// First Aid said, and the shaking of his voice only worsened. //That was a little girl, a _real live sentient human being_. She was so scared. You just don’t do that. Especially not to a child!//

//Really?// Vortex said. He stroked the drone until it was still, then flipped it upside down and opened its maintenance hatch. //Why don’t you come educate me?//

//Why don’t you grow a conscience!// First Aid snapped. Then he stopped, and the only thing that could be heard over the comm was the gentle whirr of his systems. Even his ventilation had stopped.

//Feisty,// Vortex commented. He removed the drone’s power core, watching the lights around its circumference fade, then swapped its command chip for an entirely different datachip. //OK, so maybe a squishy wasn’t the best gift. You don’t like human pets, I get that now. I’ve got you something else.//

//Don’t,// First Aid said.

//You’ll like it,// Vortex promised. He put the power core back in, and the drone booted. It chirred, and scrabbled for his shoulder. //It’s not sentient, and it’s not alive… Not really.//

//Please don’t,// First Aid repeated.

//Don’t what?//

//Don’t send me anything else.//

Vortex grinned. //Oh, I’m not sending you this,// he said. //I’m keeping it right here, ready for when you arrive.// This time, the bond did send him something – a mosaic of conflicting needs, of anxieties and fears and cold, hard dread. Not exactly the feelings he wanted to inspire, but any reaction was a start.

//No,// First Aid said, and he sounded so lost and alone that Vortex wanted nothing more than to hold him. Just hold him, and nothing else; it was weird.

//At least meet me,// Vortex said, as though it was a reasonable request. //Neutral ground, no weapons, no team, just us.//

//I… I can’t. No.//

The drone chirred anew, and nuzzled Vortex’s neck. He lifted it and removed the power core again; it could come back online later, when it was needed. //What was that?// Vortex said. //One box of assorted orphan parts? Delivered right to your door?//

//Don't say that,// First Aid moaned. //It’s horrible.//

//I just want to talk to you,// Vortex said. //Face to face. Is that so bad? I’ve never hurt you, have I? The war doesn’t count. Can you blame me for wanting to see you?//

This seemed to stump the medic. Vortex let the silence grow; he toyed with the offline drone, then put it back in its box. He began to pace, considering his next move should First Aid prove difficult.

But when First Aid broke the silence, his answer made Vortex’s spark soar.

//When?// he said, simply. //Where?//

* * *

First Aid trembled. Another boundary transgressed, another secret turning into a truckload of lies.

Vortex wasn’t sane, that much was clear. The things he’d done – before Megatron put him away for treason, as well as after Starscream resurrected him – they were terrible, unconscionable. First Aid had no trouble imagining him dismembering human infants and hiring a human courier to deliver them. He’d probably laugh while he did it.

First Aid sank against the wall. He couldn’t deal with this; he was tired, his interface hardware still hummed in direct contradiction of his every thought and emotion. He was scared and frustrated and confused.

Alone in the dark, he thought. Just like the little girl in the box.

* * *

Several days later, Vortex was given clearance to leave the base. Being outside was wonderful. The sun on his back, the breeze on his blades; the prospect of getting airborne again and returning with his medic – it was all good.

“You goin’ flyin’?” Brawl asked. He lowered his pistol; his target was a smoking ruin fifty mechanometers away. “Can I come?”

“I’m going to fetch something,” Vortex responded. “Alone.” He transformed, his glue gun clicking in place beneath his nose. “Why can’t you aim like that on missions?”

Brawl laughed, then ignored the question. “Swin says you’re getting’ us a new medic. He says it’s that Protectoglitch that pulled you outta the slag.”

“It’s a miracle,” Vortex said. “Swin’s right.”

“That mean you’re gonna stop fraggin’ him, yeah?” Brawl asked, nothing but naked hope in his voice.

Vortex started his rotors. “Sure,” he said. It wasn’t as though he wanted to interface with Swindle; it had been a transaction, that was all. And it was hardly his fault if Swindle didn’t want his two and a half joors all in one go, and kept claiming a few breems here and half a joor there.

“Good,” Brawl said, and turned back to his target. “I liked it better how it was before.”

 _When you got Swindle all to yourself?_ Vortex thought. And no wonder, no-one else would want him. For a moment, the thought seemed… Vortex wasn’t sure. Uncharitable? Mean? It was strange, like the impulse to hold First Aid when he became so obviously upset.

Vortex focused on the flow of air over his blades and tried to let the feeling go.

* * *

Three days had passed since he spoke with Vortex. Seventy-two hours of solid worry, of holding out on himself, on his team. First Aid couldn’t bring himself to interface; he avoided the other Protectobots, only speaking when spoken to, dodging questions unless he couldn’t avoid them.

His behaviour was tolerated. They thought he was in shock about the Combaticon’s ‘gift’. They thought he needed some time to himself.

He’d filed off the engraving, eventually, and brought out the fuel pump; he couldn’t rightly deny it after Sergeant Zelenski had seen it. Hot Spot had sent it off to the Ark for analysis. The letter went too, and both boxes.

All First Aid had left were Vortex’s words, and the lies he planned to tell.

He knew it was a mistake. The moment he stepped out of the door and transformed to the ever-present flash of reporters’ cameras, he regretted his decision.

Only the memory of Vortex’s casual threats urged him on.

He lost the journalists in the suburbs. Perhaps they couldn’t tell him from the other ambulances, insignia nonwithstanding, or perhaps they’d grown tired of his silence. Whichever it was, he was alone when he hit the highway.

He hadn’t left a note. He didn’t want to think he’d be gone longer than his routine downtime. Vortex would probably try something, but he could only succeed if First Aid didn’t keep his distance.

Aside from that, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

The drive took the best part of three joors. The afternoon sun beat down on his roof, and the tarmac blurred beneath him. In other circumstances, it could have been pleasant.

He pulled off the highway onto an unkempt road where the potholes stretched wider than his tires and the tarmac split in huge, ugly cracks. After that came a dirt road, and his innards churned and his fuel lines tightened until he felt as though he was driving on fumes.

He stopped just short of the given coordinates. What in the universe had he been thinking? He couldn’t go up against a Combaticon alone. Had he thought he could somehow overpower Vortex, and take him captive as he should have done back on the battlefield?

That ship had well and truly sailed.

Or had he thought that they could have a reasonable conversation, be polite to one another, and both go their respective ways afterwards?

 _Maybe_ , he admitted to himself. _Yes._

Strained as it was, the fantasy wasn’t completely shattered until the crack of a firearm echoed off the nearby cliffs, and a glob of something pale and sticky slammed onto his tire.

He hit the gas, reversing hard, but the paste dried almost instantly, gluing him to the spot. He tried harder, increasing the revs, wrenching at the rubber. It was agonising, but it was the tire or his life, and he knew which one he could do without.

He tried transforming, but got only partway there before another splat of adhesive crashed into his chassis, gumming up his seams.

Within astroseconds, he was stuck.

“Saw you havin’ second thoughts,” Vortex said. He stepped out of the shadows between two large rocks, his glue gun slung over one shoulder. “Can’t have that now, can we?”

First Aid panicked. He activated his emergency beacon, reached for his comm. But he was stuck between modes, the glue smothering critical components, and nothing responded.

Vortex vanished, moving out of range of his visual sensors. First Aid began to struggle, straining against the glue, fighting to block out the pain. Then a tight khaki mesh fell over his optical sensors, and he hissed as a series of thuds echoed through his damaged tire.

“I’ll make it up to you later,” Vortex said, as the hardened glue crumbled and First Aid’s wheel bounced free of the ground. Then the mesh tightened, and he realised with horror that it was a net.

“Just sit tight,” Vortex added. “I hope you like flying.”

* * *

First Aid was obviously terrified. 

It took a full joor for the drones to clean the hardened adhesive from his joints and seams, and another for them to change his tire and numb the damaged pressure receptors on his wheel rim.

The Protectobot shivered throughout, flinching from every touch. His fear and regret and harsh, bitter panic came to Vortex in hints of insight, as they had since the bond was made, but brighter, sharper, and no longer only momentary. Vortex reached out several times, about to stroke the smooth metal or run his finger along the inside of an exposed seam; but he stopped himself. Autobots had strange personal boundaries; getting around them would take careful thought and planning.

Eventually, the drones were done.

“You can transform now,” Vortex said, and wow, watching his prize unfold was the most wonderful moment. “Feeling better?”

“No,” First Aid snapped. He sat up, and immediately clasped his helm and pitched dizzily to the right. Vortex caught him, a hint of the mech’s disorientation shooting through the bond to prompt little crackles of black and silver in his own vision. Then the dizziness passed, and First Aid froze. His joints locked and his vents ceased; only his shivering got worse.

Ah, yeah, that personal boundaries thing. Oh well, Vortex was close now, his arm around the Protectobot’s waist, their hips pressed together as he perched on the repair berth. No point in backing off just yet. “Frag, you’re gorgeous,” he said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

* * *

First Aid knew where he was: Combaticon HQ. But where _that_ was, he had no idea. A desert, somewhere. Not America, probably not Africa. Asia? Maybe. And no, right now really wasn’t the time to be thinking about how close Vortex was, or to notice the scent of airframe-grade energon, or the breeze from his vents or the compliment that could so easily be a threat, or _anything_. And certainly not about what he’d learnt from Red Alert’s files, about all the deaths, the torture, the casual, calm genocide.

“I don’t have any intel,” he said, and his voice shook as badly as his frame. “Do what you want, I have nothing to tell you.”

“Relax,” Vortex said. “You’ll get cable strain.”

“Can’t,” First Aid said. If it was something Vortex wanted, then it was something he shouldn’t do. He ran through a systems check, deliberately skipping over the notification ‘Proximity to bond-mate established: initiate interface’. He wasn’t about to augment the bond; scrap, Vortex was probably going to take him apart to snuff his spark to erase the bond completely. Whoever had heard of a bonded Decepticon? Trines, sure, and gestalts, but not pair-based spark bonds.

His shivering increased. “Ratchet says it might not take,” he stated, but the notification came up again, flashing on his HUD. His spark ached, little tendrils of need filtering through him, meshing with the fear.

“What might not take?” Vortex said, but he sounded distracted. _Was_ distracted, First Aid learned in a shocking blaze of data. He was focused on the bond, his spark a churning mess of desires and needs and fresh new cravings; he was enthralled.

“The bond,” First Aid whispered. “Please,” he managed. “Let me go. I saved you…”

But Vortex only held him tighter. “And I’m gonna save you,” he said. “It’s no life, runnin’ around after squishies on this dirtball.”

“Please,” First Aid repeated, the word a tiny squeak against the roar of coolant and the ache of his spark. Save him, what a horrible way to put it. Did Vortex think of it as euthanasia?

“We’re all covered in scrap,” Vortex said. “Let’s get you clean.”

* * *

First Aid leant dizzily against a wall. He was coated in muck, a thousand tiny smears of atmospheric pollutant from the flight. Water blurred his vision, and ran in sheets over his back and arms. Was he meant to be cleaning himself? Vortex had vanished, leaving him in the care of a single drone. It fussed around his feet, beeping and chittering, but didn’t raise an appendage to help out.

The water stung. His seams were sore from the un-gluing and his injured wheel made his shoulder twinge every time he moved.

He didn’t remember much of the flight, just a blur of motion in a great chasm of panic. He wasn’t new to dangling under a helicopter, but never in a net, and never for so long.

“All right,” Vortex said, emerging through the steam to take hold of him again. “You’re clean enough.” First Aid flinched, but hadn’t the energy to pull away; the drone looked up at them and waved its insectile forelegs while it’s little eyes blinked on and off.

“Does it matter?” First Aid said. He was going to die anyway, and without telling his team how sorry he was. He’d never confess his lies, or sit with them again in front of the TV, or go out on patrol while the sun sank and the heat flowed up from the Earth to warm him against the chill of the night.

“Thought you’d wanna be clean,” Vortex said, as the drier kicked in and the water began to evaporate. “You like your pet?”

What pet? First Aid looked up, only to find that Vortex’s face was far too close. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Vortex turned him around before answering, holding him closer to the gusting air. “The one tryin’a climb my leg,” he said. “I’d have got you another squishy, but you didn’t like the first one.”

First Aid tried to focus; the med drone was nuzzled against Vortex’s cockpit glass, apparently enjoying the sudden warmth. It caught him looking and beeped.

“Gonna have to reset it though,” Vortex continued. “It’s climbing up the wrong mech.” He went quiet a moment, and when he spoke again he sounded disappointed. “You don’t like it?”

“I…” First Aid tried to push away, and failed. “I don’t get it,” he said weakly. “Why are you doing this?”

“’Cause,” Vortex replied. The airflow calmed, and he moved in for another stifling, terrifying embrace. “You feel it, right?” he said. “The spark thing.” He shook his leg, dislodging the drone. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.”

“Any _one_ ,” First Aid groaned, frozen between his own abject fear and the contrary insistence of the bond. “I’m a person, not a thing. I want to go home, please…”

“OK,” Vortex said, and lifted him, putting him easily and gently over his shoulder. “You look tired. Maybe you should recharge before we leave.”

They were leaving? Hope flared for one wonderful moment, then faded as First Aid realised how ridiculous that emotion had been. For a moment that was just as brief he considered fighting back. He could hit Vortex in the head with his elbow, hopefully knock him offline, then run and drive and get as far away as he possibly could.

Then he could fix his comms and call Skyfire or Silverbolt. Someone who would take him back home, and let him do the talking before making their report to Prowl. Someone he could trust not to hurt his team with the knowledge of where he’d been and who had taken him before he could break the news himself.

There was still time.

But his struggles just earnt him a pat on the aft, and a softly amused growl of Vortex’s engine.

He’d have to find another way out.

* * *

It took a while, but eventually the Protectobot’s confusion began to seep through the bond.

Vortex carried him to the suite he currently thought of as home and laid him on the bunk. First Aid curled up immediately, still shivering. If only he’d stretch out, remove his mask, maybe smile. He’d be shy, obviously, but with the ever-present urging of the bond, how could he be anything but eager?

He wasn’t, though. He was terrified.

The drone clambered onto the bunk and tried to nestle against the medic’s leg. First Aid jerked away, shuddering.

“Don’t,” he said, prompting another of those curious, alien impulses just to hold him and never let go.

“Don’t what?” Vortex said. “That wasn’t me.” He put the drone in recharge and shoved it on a shelf. Then he cut the room’s lights and opened the window. The sun had already set within the crater, but up on the desert plateau, the sand still glowed a warm orange. “I’ll get you a turbofox or something, or maybe a little glitchmouse. You like small stuff, yeah?”

“No… no humans,” First Aid said. He didn’t turn to look out the window, or do anything other than remain huddled facing the wall, but at least he was speaking.

“Sure, whatever, no humans.” Vortex lay on his front, getting comfy. Funny how the burn of his interface components had mellowed to a constant, low-grade ache. The bond still pinged him with the instruction to get intimate, and testing the medic’s suspension was seriously high on his list of priorities, but something was dulling his desire to do that _right now_. “How’s your tire?” he asked.

“Irrelevant,” First Aid snapped. His shoulders hunched, as though he was trying to protect his wheels. He curled up tighter, edging towards the wall. “You don’t have to guard me,” he said. “I’m not going to run away.”

That was a lie, and even if the bond hadn’t chosen just then to open up, Vortex would have known it by the tone of the medic’s voice and the altered pitch of his engine. And he would have been amused, had that revelation not come with a slew of data about First Aid’s operational status, his temperature and energy levels, the pain in his tire, the ache in his comm equipment, and the fragmentary, dizzying vision of what he believed Vortex was planning on doing to him.

Before the bond, that would have been exquisite. But now? The very thought made him queasy.

“I’m not going to scrap you,” Vortex said. Leaning his head on his arm, he stretched out his free hand to trace the angle at the small of First Aid’s back.

The medic froze. “It wouldn’t do you any good,” he said, and his disbelief was palpable. “Killing me will damage you,” he said. “It’ll hurt. It could take years to heal. It won’t get you out of the bond, it’ll just give you something… incomplete. You can’t undo it.”

“Don’t wanna undo it,” Vortex said softly. He slid his hand over First Aid’s waist and hip, then over to his abdomen. He tugged the medic back, nestling the smaller frame against his front and curling around him. “What’s it gonna take before you’ll believe me?” He kissed the back of First Aid’s neck, prompting another heavy shudder.

“Let me go home,” First Aid said.

Another kiss, another tremor, and Vortex grinned as the medic’s fans engaged. “You like that?” he said.

“I can’t help it, it’s involuntary.”

“Give me your cable,” Vortex said, as his fingers found First Aid’s wrists and the shallow depression that hid his medical diagnostic probe.

“No.” First Aid tried to pull away. “Why do you want it anyway?”

“I want your schematics.” Vortex kissed his neck again, and wriggled until First Aid’s aft ground over his spike cover.

“What? No, stop it…”

“Frag, you’re _perfect_.” And well worth waiting for, Vortex thought, as First Aid’s terror morphed, and his energy field tingled all along Vortex’s chest, sending little jolts of pleasure through his spike and his valve. “I don’t wanna damage you,” he said. He brushed his fingers tantalisingly close to the upper edge of First Aid’s spike cover, then moved his hand back to the Autobot’s abdomen. “Gotta make sure we’re compatible.”

* * *

“We’re not!” First Aid squirmed. “Let me go! Please!” He kicked out, tried to roll away, but Vortex held on.

“You’re heating up,” Vortex whispered, his lips to the back of First Aid’s neck, his voice vibrating through the delicate, thin metal. “Tell me this doesn’t rev your engine.”

It was torture. Each tiny, tingling flicker of the Combaticon’s energy field, each sharp burst of pleasure across his sensor net wherever their armour touched. The need was intense – false and painful and absolutely, utterly wrong, but so very strong.

“It isn’t real,” First Aid managed. He shuddered, venting hard. “It’s just a symptom.”

“I knew you felt it,” Vortex commented, and his jubilance was overwhelming. First Aid curled tighter around himself, trying to ease the frantic surging in his interface hardware as much as trying to get away from Vortex. But the Combaticon remained wrapped around him, his fingers inching down between First Aid’s legs. “If you won’t let me see your schematics,” he said, “we’ll just have to go with trial and error.”

“Don’t,” First Aid whispered. “Please no…” A fresh ache speared through him, then settled tight and fierce in his valve. Even worse, his energy field was changing, shifting, the fluctuations adjusting to synchronise with the Combaticon’s. It brought about a loathsome sense of belonging, of companionship and rightness. Another warning flashed up, but he couldn’t focus well enough to read it. Something about initialising and interface, and then Vortex’s palm cupped his spike cover and it was all he could do to keep his panels shut.

Vortex sighed and slipped his glossa between the cables at the nape of First Aid’s neck. The intrusion sent a fresh wave of shivering through him, and he squeaked, struggling again as Vortex gently bit down. “You talkin’ to me or the programming?” Vortex said, augmenting his words with a brief squeeze of the spike cover.

First Aid brought his elbow back and tried to knock himself out of the embrace. “Both!” he spat, and the word tasted as bitter as it felt. “Let me go!”

“Why?” Vortex said. He drew back, and in the shock of no longer being held, First Aid allowed his frame to uncurl. It was a bad move. Vortex slung him on his back and straddled his hips, seizing First Aid’s wrists. Terror overlay the arousal, not dispersing it but adding to it for one horrible moment of overwhelming internal conflict. Then the bond opened, and he was immersed in a fierce wave of possessive desire, a paradoxical mix of savage, predatory lust and ferocious protectiveness.

“You don’t want to kill me.” It was a revelation, and along with it came the realisation that Vortex was enjoying the bond, that he actually _wanted_ it. First Aid tried to clear his mind, to think it through – there was something here he could use, he thought, some way to make Vortex see sense – but he was too warm, too affected.

“Didn’t I already tell you that?” Vortex said, but his tone was light, as teasing as the flicker of his energy field over First Aid’s hips, or the breeze from his vents as he bent to kiss First Aid’s mask.

“That doesn’t…” First Aid turned away, writhing in Vortex’s grip. “That doesn’t make this OK,” he said. “This is not OK!” And it didn’t matter how much his covers strained to open, or how hard his spike pressed against the inside of its hatch, it would never be OK.

“But you want to,” Vortex said.

“The programming wants me to!” First Aid cried as the swell of his spark reached a peak and the energy flooded him. His optics shorted, and minor systems crashed and rebooted as the excess charge seared wires and circuits, searching for release.

Vortex tugged on his arms, slipped something around his wrists. “You’re trapped in Autobot morality,” he said. “It’s suffocating you.” Another insight; the feral rush of arousal accompanied by Vortex’s absolute certainty that he was doing the right thing, the thing that was in First Aid’s best interests. “You need to let go.”

“You need to let me go!” First Aid howled. “I don’t belong here!”

“That’s true enough,” Vortex said. “You belong with me, and we belong on Cybertron.” He released First Aid’s wrist and shuffled back, reaching for his knees.

It was the opportunity First Aid had been waiting for, but he couldn’t take it; Vortex had bound his wrists. He could move his arms, could pull the fabric taut, but the cloth hid a rope of chains, and although he could hear them clink he had neither the strength nor the leverage to break them.

When his legs were similarly bound, Vortex again straddled him. “You can recharge if you like,” he said, and tilted his hips to bump their hatches together. “But you know it’ll just get worse.”

“You kill people,” First Aid said, and even he could recognise the strain in his voice. He brought up the memory of Red Alert’s files, desperate to keep his spike inside his armour. “The things you’ve done…”

“Didn’t put you in a cell, though,” Vortex countered. “Did I? Didn’t let you fall when you were dizzy, didn’t leave your injuries untreated, or lock you away and slice bits off you every joor until you agreed to interface? Hmm?”

First Aid gasped, but the nausea he wanted to feel just wouldn't come. “You’ve done that before, haven’t you? Oh Primus…”

Vortex shrugged. “Not recently?” He ground their covers together, then leaned forward and began to kiss First Aid’s throat. “Open your hatch,” he said. “I need you in me.” He added “please”, and it was obviously an afterthought.

First Aid resisted. His spike was ready – and _how_ – and his spark pulsed in approval at the thought, but he couldn’t, he _shouldn’t_. It was wrong in so many ways. He tried not to be relieved that Vortex hadn’t demanded to enter him, that he hadn’t pried off his covers and taken him by force. But this was just another kind of force, using the spark bond against him, teasing him until he could do nothing but comply.

Maybe giving in would help.

He rejected the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. If they consummated the bond, the arousal should fade, the need disperse. Maybe Vortex would get tired of him, and he could find a way out. At the very least, it would buy him some time and the clarity of mind to use that time.

After what seemed like an eternity, First Aid made a choice that was not really a choice at all.

The cover slid open, and Vortex sighed. “ _Yes…_ ”

First Aid winced. He tried to be numb, to force out all feeling as Vortex slid onto him and the nodes glowed with a hot and wholly visceral excitement.

And not just the spike nodes, but his valve too, his cable and his port and his spark and every other part of him, warming and humming and thrilling as Vortex moved above him.

He wanted to climax quickly, get it over with. He tried to disassociate, but the bond brought him back, and his generic dream lover refused to materialise. He was trapped in the moment, lying still under Vortex, uncomfortably aroused, his spike and his spark both gathering charge, winding up for an overload that couldn’t come too soon.

Vortex rocked over him, compressing and sliding and drawing out the pleasure. Taking him slowly, making him want to buck his hips, making him wish there was something in his valve while his spike slid slick and charged against Vortex’s ceiling node. He felt empty and needy and hot all at once.

As for Vortex, he was planning something. The insight came just like the others in a long burst of data; emotions and thoughts all mixed together with hints and scraps of sensation. But what he was planning was a mystery. Unlike what he wanted; that was clear as the fire in his optics.

First Aid gripped the bunk, striving to keep his back struts straight as the overload built and the full force of Vortex’s craving for him hit.

The programming approved. The warnings vanished from his HUD, and his spark settled almost instantly, thrumming in a rhythm that – just like his energy field – was synchronised with that of the Combaticon. The sensation of belonging returned, and along with it a new and satisfied weariness. It was abhorrent, but he couldn’t reject it.

Vortex lay down beside him, one hand lazily stroking his spike, a leg slung casually over his thighs. First Aid struggled onto his side and resumed his defensive curl – or as close to it as he could manage with the bonds at his wrists and knees.

“Feels better,” Vortex said drowsily. “Doesn’t it.”

First Aid didn't respond.

* * *

When he awoke, Onslaught was standing over them.

“Get up,” he snapped. “We’re already pushing the launch window.”

Vortex groaned and clung on tighter to First Aid. He was awake – the bond was clear about that – but he obviously didn’t want to be. Onslaught's fingers twitched; he reached for Vortex’s rotor hub, then stopped.

“Get him up,” he snarled. “And no ‘facing until he’s been briefed. We leave in one joor.”


	4. Chapter 4

Understandably, Vortex didn’t take First Aid to the briefing. Instead, he took him outside to a collection of low iron sheds, and left him there.

The sun had barely risen, and long blue shadows overlaid the crater floor. Combaticon HQ nestled against sheer rock, a huddle of buildings in an ancient Cybertronian style. So much space for only five mechs. But if what First Aid had heard was correct, Megatron was glad to have rid of the team from the Nemesis, and they were glad to have the distance from one another.

He rubbed his wrists; he could still feel the press of the restraints. And the slick heat of Vortex’s valve, the steady build of their shared overload. He tried to shake it off. It was horrible, sickening. He should never have left Protectobot HQ.

He sighed. He knew better than to blame himself, but what he knew and what he felt weren’t exactly in accord.

He studied the cliffs, scanning the rock for any path by which he might get up onto the desert plateau, and from there to safety. He could see none. Without flight, it was hopeless, but it was either that or think about what Vortex might be planning. Or what his team might be thinking, now he’d been missing for almost a day.

A door opened behind him; he flinched, resisting the siren pull of the spark bond.

“You didn’t go in?” Vortex said. He caught First Aid’s arm before he could wrench himself away. “You gotta go in, I got something for you.”

There was no use in telling him no, so First Aid didn’t bother. He allowed himself to be dragged, and refused to acknowledge the small yet steady twinges in his equipment that came whenever Vortex touched him.

“OK, stand there,” Vortex said. He sounded pleased with himself, and First Aid wondered whether this was the plan he’d had in mind. Maybe Vortex was better at subterfuge than even the spark programming could detect; maybe he was about to raise his weapons and fire them into First Aid’s processors. Maybe…

Vortex vanished around a corner and returned a moment later with something in his hands. “No more squishies,” he said, “I know that, remember? And you’re not into Cybertronian wildlife, I get that too. How about this?” He opened his hands, and First Aid gasped.

A tiger cub stared up at him. Siberian, his databanks supplied, probably a month old, certainly less than six weeks. It opened its mouth and yawned, its pale eyes blinking.

“That’s…” First Aid held out his hands. “That’s too young to leave its mother,” he said, and too fragile to be anywhere near Vortex. “Where _is_ its mother?”

“In there,” Vortex said. He dropped the cub into First Aid’s hands and gestured along the hall. “You like it? ‘Cause Brawl’s got a truckload of them, he won’t miss one.”

First Aid edged past the rotary and down the corridor. If the mother refused to take back the cub because their scent was all over it, he’d never forgive himself. “They’re Brawl’s?” he said.

“Brawl likes tigers.” Vortex shrugged, and took the opportunity to pat First Aid on the aft as he passed. “But he can’t count for scrap.”

First Aid shuddered at the touch, welcoming the surge of disgust just as he dismissed the contradictory and equally intense pleasurable thrill. The cub batted his thumb with a paw, then tried to knaw on it, but its mouth wasn’t quite big enough. “We’ll just put you back,” First Aid said.

Its mother was immense. Glossy and powerful and utterly stunning, she lay in a shaft of early morning sunlight, her other cubs playing or sleeping around her. First Aid gently lowered the cub to the ground, where it made a noise like a tiny engine starting up, then bounded off to join its family.

He was expecting the sharp pang of homesickness, but he wasn’t expecting Vortex to step up behind him and wrap him in a tight embrace.

“You gonna give it a name?” Vortex said, and for once his hands didn’t stray anywhere intimate.

“Why do you want me to have a pet?” First Aid asked. He regretted it instantly, as Vortex took one of his hands and leaned over his shoulder to kiss the fingers one by one.

“’Cause of your programming,” he said. “Medics gotta have scrap to look after.”

* * *

“You,” Onslaught said, pointing at Swindle, “are riding up front with me.”

In his alt mode in the middle of the hangar floor, Blast Off groaned. “I’d rather he didn’t,” he said.

“He gets a longer briefing,” Onslaught rumbled. “And thanks to someone…” He glared at Brawl. “…we didn’t have the time for it earlier. Vortex and Brawl, you’re in the back with the Autobot. Make sure he doesn’t break anything.”

First Aid looked as though he was about to protest, but Vortex distracted him with a quick pinch of his un-damaged shoulder tire. “Don’t question orders,” he whispered. “It won’t go well for you.”

First Aid was shivering again. Not as badly as the day before, but it was still noticeable. Vortex wished they’d brought the tiger along, at least then the medic would have something to focus on other than the cage of his Autobot morality and the ridiculous interfacing and personal boundary taboos his creators seemed to have hard-wired into him.

It probably didn’t help that Brawl was staring.

Vortex manoeuvred First Aid into one of the few seats, and reached for the harness.

“Can I pet him?” Brawl said.

First Aid’s head snapped up and his visor flared. His panic was obvious.

“No,” Vortex snapped. “And stop scaring him.” He turned to First Aid. “Ignore him. OK, you’ve been in space before, right?”

First Aid nodded.

“Good.” Vortex strapped him in, although he wasn’t sure it was necessary and he certainly didn’t bother for himself. Blast Off was a smooth ride when he wanted to be, and with Onslaught on board he was certain to want to be.

And thinking of smooth rides, if Brawl went into recharge – as he sometimes did on space flights – then that harness had just the right mix of strength and flexibility to keep the Autobot still while they ran a repeat of the previous evening. Or, even better, he could rearrange the seating and have the Autobot in his lap.

“Don’t.” First Aid lowered his head. “Not here.”

 _Somewhere else then_ , Vortex thought, but said, “OK.”

Brawl’s laughter was lost in the roar of Blast Off’s engines.

* * *

Being inside Blast Off was strange. His alt was larger than First Aid had expected, but gloomy and oppressive with the purples and browns of the shuttle’s armour. A cargo net hung from one curved wall, and lockers lined the floor beneath the seats. There was no window in the cargo hold save the porthole in the door, and First Aid wasn’t close enough to gauge the view. All he could see was a reflection of Brawl taking inventory of his ammo.

First Aid didn’t know where they were going. He only knew that he was there because it was too risky to leave him back at the base.

Vortex was clearly overjoyed that he’d been allowed to come along, but the others weren’t quite so pleased. Swindle had shot him a look of pure loathing, Brawl’s glower had been downright hostile, Blast Off had ignored him, and Onslaught had treated him like a piece of cargo.

It was a relief. Aside from the question about petting him, the other Combaticons seemed to have no interest in him whatsoever. He could only hope that would give him an avenue of escape when they got to their destination.

“ETA five joors after we emerge from the spacebridge,” Blast Off announced over his speakers. “Artificial gravity engaged. No interfacing, or I’ll vent you all into the void.”

“What about hugs?” Brawl said, and for a moment First Aid thought his audials were broken.

“Ignoramus,” Blast Off huffed, and the speakers cut out.

“Frag you, Blasty.” Brawl put away his ammo and holstered his gun. He cocked his head, his earlier hostility evaporating. “Can I hold him?”

Vortex folded his arms and glared. “No.”

“Awww, ‘cmon!” Brawl slumped. “You always used to share.”

“Not this time,” Vortex replied. “He’s delicate. You’d hurt him.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Brawl growled.

“Yes,” Vortex said. “You would.”

It was like watching Blades and Slingshot spiral up for a fight. Or rather it wasn’t, because how in the universe could First Aid ever compare his noble, heroic team mate with the Combaticon interrogator? And Brawl bore no resemblance to Slingshot. Except maybe a certain foulness of his language, but First Aid felt bad for thinking it.

“I _won’t_ ,” Brawl insisted. “We’re team, you gotta share with team.”

“He’s mine,” Vortex snarled. “And you’re not having him.”

“I don’t wanna keep him!” Brawl wailed. “I just wanna hold him a bit. You gave him one of my cats!” So that was where the earlier hostility had come from.

“You’re too rough to hold him!” Vortex snapped. “You’d dent him or scrape him, and where am I gonna find a panel beater between here and fraggin’ Monacus?”

Monacus? That explained where they were going. Not that Vortex’s little slip made any difference; there was no-one for First Aid to tell.

“I ain’t gonna dent him,” Brawl wailed. “I’m gonna dent your face!”

First Aid cringed; why did he have to be so loud? And why, for that matter, did Vortex have to be so argumentative? They were crude and obnoxious and undisciplined, and First Aid had come to the end of his rope.

“Stop arguing!” he yelled. “Can’t you get just along?” He unclipped the harness and stood, uncertain exactly what he was doing, but so full of irritation that for one long moment he really didn’t care. Then it dawned on him where that irritation had come from – it certainly wasn’t his own – and he wanted the floor to part and the endless gulf of space to swallow him up. “Um…”

“Yeah, Tex,” Brawl cooed. “Stop arguing.”

“Please!” First Aid raised his hands, hoping to Primus that sound behind him wasn’t Vortex powering up his integrated weapons. "You don’t need to fight.”

Brawl looked confused. “Yeah we do,” he said.

“No you don’t,” First Aid countered. He sighed; being the voice of reason, especially when he was scared and tired and under-energised and being held against his will, was hard. “Brawl, do you honestly just want a hug?”

“Sure!” Brawl said, and the look he shot Vortex was pure vicious triumph.

“Just a hug,” First Aid cautioned, wondering again exactly what he thought he was doing. But Vortex was a few steps away, and Blast Off had said no interfacing; and maybe, just maybe, with kindness and luck he could get Brawl on his side.

“No funny business,” Brawl said. “I got ‘ya.”

Vortex was not pleased. His jealousy coloured the bond, overpowered only by that vicious protective streak. But he stayed in his seat, the harsh growl of his primary engine the sole outward indicator of his displeasure. Perhaps this would teach him a lesson, but First Aid wasn’t sure what that lesson should be.

Oh Primus, this was going to have consequences.

First Aid gave Brawl the requisite hug, laying his arms on the tank’s broad shoulders as he couldn't reach all the way around. Brawl hugged him back, so tight his armour creaked.

“If you ever get bored o’ Tex,” he said, and that was First Aid’s cue to disengage. Clearly, however, Brawl didn’t want him to.

“Um…” First Aid squirmed. “Just a hug,” he said. “You agreed, and you can take your hand off my aft right now… Thankyou.” He stepped back.

“My turn,” Vortex said.

“You didn’t ask nicely,” Brawl sneered. He fell back in his seat with a clatter.

Vortex opened his mouth to reply, but evidently had second thoughts because it was a moment before anything came out. “All right,” he said. “How about you come sit over here with me? Please.”

First Aid suppressed a shudder born of equal parts anticipation and dread, as a note appeared in his HUD: ‘proximity to bond mate required, physical contact suggested’.

But just as he was steeling himself to take the path of least resistance, Blast Off’s speakers crackled to life. “Protectobot, you are required on the flight deck.”

* * *

“Sit down,” Onslaught said. “Keep quiet, don’t touch anything, and don’t interrupt the music.”

“And don’t fidget,” Blast Off added. “And if you absolutely must recharge, don’t lean your head on the console. Use the head-rest like any normal person.”

First Aid nodded, and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He eased his way between the seats, through the gap recently vacated by Swindle, and sat down. Already, he could hear the muffled sound of raised voices from the cargo hold.

Once he was settled, Onslaught flipped a switch on the far left of the vast control board, and a haunting, alien harmony rose to fill the cockpit.

“Better,” Onslaught commented. Then he turned his head, having apparently noticed the anxiety and confusion written in First Aid’s pose. “You’re a distraction,” he said. “I need them alert, not mooning after you.”

First Aid nodded, and tried to resist feeling ashamed.

“Pay attention to the music,” Onslaught added. “Some real culture will do you good.”

* * *

Before they landed, Onslaught laid out the rules. No talking to Vortex while he was working; no interfering in Combaticon or Decepticon business; no more hugging Brawl while they were on duty; and – just in case he was thinking about it – no driving a wedge between Vortex and Swindle, because no-one needed that.

And if First Aid felt the urge to comm for help, or otherwise attempt to contact the Autobots, there were whole cities full of humans back on Earth, and Blast Off possessed a very powerful set of lasers that were highly effective from orbit.

First Aid was told to sit still, keep quiet, and wait on board Blast Off until the other four came back.

As such, First Aid’s initial impressions of Monacus were filtered through the thick glass of Blast Off’s cockpit.

Ships landed and launched. People mingled and chatted, exchanging credits and goods and fond embraces. Cybertronians and aliens; organic, cybernetic and robotic. The variety was astounding.

It took him away from the here and now, and the guttural fear of exactly what Vortex was planning for the next time they were alone.

“Keep your energy field under control,” Blast Off said.

“Sorry,” First Aid responded. He truly was; he didn’t want the warm glow of anticipation any more than he wanted the shameful guilt or the cable-creaking fear. He also didn’t particularly like Blast Off’s silence; it felt like judgment. “Um, what was the music called?” he asked.

“You don’t know?” Blast Off huffed. “Did they teach you nothing?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but carried on in the same disgusted tone. “I don’t suppose they do. The Autobots never did appreciate culture, but neither does Vortex. Classless, all of them. It’s Wire-coil’s Nebulae, although I doubt you’ll have heard of her.”

“No,” First Aid said quietly. “I haven’t. Thankyou.”

“Don’t thank me,” Blast Off said. “Educate yourself.”

The next breem passed in silence. First Aid fought the urge to squirm. Whatever Vortex was doing, it was energetic and violent, and he was enjoying it immensely. It was a particular kind of cruelty, First Aid mused, that tied a bonded pair so closely to each other. He could imagine a thousand ways it could go wrong in the normal scheme of things, with mechs who wanted to be bonded.

What he’d subjected them to was a mockery.

“You’re fidgeting,” Blast Off commented.

“Sorry,” First Aid said. He gripped his hands between his knees, and throttled the power to his limbs.

“Why did you do it?” Blast Off asked. “Why didn’t you let him die?”

It wasn't the question he'd expected to hear. First Aid bit back another automatic apology, and tried to form a proper response.

Outside, the light was changing. A distant sun cast a green-grey pall over the rocky landscape, and even the lights of the nearest town seemed to shine through tainted water rather than air.

“I did it because I could,” First Aid said softly. No point in lying, even if his reason was no reason at all. “There was no other option; he would have died.” He paused, suppressing a shudder. “It was the right thing to do.”

“You really think that?” Blast Off sounded surprised.

First Aid nodded. He knew which moment things had turned for the worse, and it wasn’t Vortex’s threats, it wasn’t his own shameful lies, his foolish concern for his patient’s wellbeing. It was his comm call to Onslaught, his invasion of the Combaticon gestalt bond. He should have called Hot Spot instead. Vortex would have been their prisoner, they could have done something to help him, and none of this needed to have happened.

“Your principles are your downfall,” Blast Off said, and he didn’t seem even remotely amused.

* * *

Two joors later, and Blast Off’s sentiment rang wholly false. It wasn’t First Aid’s principles that were his downfall; it was the spark bond. It influenced his moods, sending current to all the wrong places, and inspired lust where there should only have been revulsion.

It was like before, only worse. Instead of eliminating the desire to interface, consummating the bond had only enhanced it.

The walk into Monacus City was a new kind of torment. Vortex was inescapable. Even when he kept his hands to himself, his presence was a constant reminder of the bond’s need for them to connect. The copter’s rotors were distracting; the scrapes and dents on his armour held an odd fascination. Even the fresh polish scent of his hands was enticing – and First Aid really didn’t want to know why he’d had to clean them.

The Combaticons surrounded him; Onslaught up front, Blast Off and Vortex to either side, and Brawl and Swindle at the rear. Perhaps they were worried that he’d run away. First Aid certainly wanted to, but he was under no illusions about what a bad idea that would be in a place like this. It wasn’t Sheol, sure, but no part of Monacus could be counted friendly to a lost Autobot grounder with no money and no transport of his own.

Eventually, Onslaught spoke. “We’re here,” he said. A blank-faced building loomed behind him, dark where the others were bright, its plain façade plastered and painted, but otherwise unmarked. “We regroup in fifteen joors.”

“Drink?” Brawl asked, as his hand made contact with First Aid’s aft. Vortex smacked it away, to Swindle’s obvious amusement.

“Drink,” Swindle concurred, and the two of them pared off towards the lights of the bars and casinos.

“I could do with one too,” Vortex mused, but he was interrupted by Blast Off.

“I’m not recharging in there,” he said, giving Onslaught the first openly insubordinate look First Aid had seen from any of them. He turned that disapproving gaze on Vortex. “I find superfluous noise to be distasteful. You may contact me for emergency evacuation, should the need arise, and be grateful if I respond.” He didn’t wait for Onslaught to reply, but transformed, and quickly vanished through the fog of pollutants which clung to the sky like clouds.

Onslaught’s engine revved, making the surface of the road vibrate. He activated his comms. “Grateful?” he snarled. “Hardly.”

“Thirtsy?” Vortex said, and First Aid realised that he was being steered away from Onslaught. “’Cause he ain’t in a fun mood and you got that under-energised look about you.”

“Um?” First Aid glanced back at the Combaticon commander, but Vortex got in the way.

“Energon’s through here,” he said. His mask rolled back into his helm, and he grinned. “And you still owe me from earlier.”

* * *

Inside, the building was no less shady than outside. Subtle lights threw up great chasms of gloom, and surly looking mechs jostled them and offered Vortex cash for a taste of his prisoner. First Aid knew he shouldn’t be, but he was grateful when the owner lead them to the suite Onslaught had hired.

Their room was windowless and equally gloomy, but at least it was cool.

There were no Decepticon insignias, but it looked like First Aid had always imagined certain parts of the Nemesis. All brushed steel and polished chrome with rich, imperial purple.

The furniture, however, was more like something out of an erotic holovid Smokescreen had once – and far from wisely – leant Blades. The thought of Blades made First Aid dizzy. Had his team noticed he was gone? Were they looking for him? The gestalt bond was as inactive as it had been since he had distanced himself from them in the wake of Vortex’s ‘gifts’. Did they even know he was in trouble?

Vortex threw himself onto a large, plush seat and patted the cushion next to him. “I ain’t angry about the thing with Brawl,” he said. “But I’m not letting him have you. He doesn’t know his own strength, you’d lose an arm or something. Swin once did.”

He did? First Aid vented slowly, trying to focus on the queasy burn of homesickness, and push down the arousal. Scrap, the programming was strong. “H-how?” he managed.

Vortex snickered and rolled onto his back. “Swin kept tellin’ him ‘Harder! Harder!’, then he forgot the safe word.” He saw First Aid’s expression and laughed. “I’m not serious,” he said. “Fragged if I know what actually happened. They had an argument or something. There’s a couple of cubes in that closet over there, you wanna go get ‘em?”

High grade, it would have to be. But any energon was enough to make his fuel lines constrict and the low fuel warnings go crazy. First Aid retrieved the drinks, and tried to find somewhere to sit that wasn’t the immense heap of soft-looking cushions.

Vortex downed his cube in one and sighed, stretching out. His back arched and his rotors pressed into the fabric, and First Aid had to find something else to look at.

“Sit down and drink up,” Vortex said. “You talk to Blast Off?”

Was that a hint of jealousy in his tone? First Aid didn’t like the implications. He perched on the edge of the seat, and took a sip of the high grade. “A little,” he said.

“What did you talk about?” Again, the question was less casual than First Aid felt it should have been.

“He told me about some Cybertronian music,” he said. He took a longer sip, thinking of Sparkplug and his concept of Dutch Courage. “He asked why I’d saved you.”

“I never thought you would,” Vortex said. “Thought I was gonna die.” He rolled over again and got onto his knees behind First Aid. “You like the music?”

The dissonance was dizzying. So was the high grade. First Aid forced himself to continue drinking as though his enemy wasn’t poised at his shoulder, hands reaching for his waist. Resistance was useless, but he couldn’t _not_ resist, the treacherous pitfalls of shame and guilt saw to that.

“I can find more for you,” Vortex said. “If you want. You should learn about Cybertron.”

First Aid jumped at the press of Vortex’s lips on the side of his neck. The cube jolted, a little high grade sloshing over onto his thigh. “I should get, um…” He went to stand, but Vortex held him tight.

“You’re so nervous,” he said. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

“But you like it anyway? Don’t you?” First Aid spoke without thinking, responding to the bond more than Vortex’s words. Again, it wasn’t his own irritation – and not Vortex’s either – but something seeping through the Combaticon gestalt connection, then into the spark bond.

“I like everything about you,” Vortex said.

“No you don’t,” First Aid retorted. He threw back the rest of the cube, swallowing frantically to get it all down in case Vortex decided to take it away. “You’re keeping me prisoner,” he said. “You won’t let me talk to my team. I want to go home, back to Earth, with other Autobots.”

“That’s not all you want,” Vortex said. He dragged a finger through the high grade on First Aid’s thigh. “You want to be filled,” he whispered. “You want to work off some of that charge.”

“No,” First Aid lied. He pressed his legs together, but there was still space for Vortex to slide a finger. “Oh scrap no, stop, please stop!”

“You’ll enjoy it, you know you will.”

“That doesn’t matter.” First Aid pushed up from the seat, trying to gain a little leverage. The empty cube fell to the floor. “It isn’t real, none of it’s real. You only want me because the bond’s telling you that you do. That’s all this is, it’s fabricated.”

“I wanted you before.” Vortex tugged him back, nibbling now on his shoulder while his finger stoked an infuriating, light path over First Aid’s valve cover. “Not like this, but I did. And I know you’ve got a preference for rotaries. Aren’t you fascinated by the way the programming works?” He tugged on First Aid’s shoulders, urging him to lie back. “Because you should be,” he continued. “We were built for this. You think it’s a threat to your free will? You’re a Cybertronian, this was always part of your potential.”

“I’m an Autobot!” First Aid squirmed. His vision swam as the high grade reached his primary fuel pump and began to hit his minor systems. “I was built to fix people, to protect them. I’ve never been to Cybertron!”

“I’ll take you there,” Vortex said. “Connect with me, I’ll show you everything.”

The high grade reached First Aid’s processors; dizzy, he fell back against Vortex’s chest. “You’re just after my schematics,” he said. He twisted around, wanting the extra impact of optical contact when he spoke. “Don’t you care about free will?”

“I take my freedoms where I find them,” Vortex replied. His tone was light, but the bond showed something very different. “They never asked you either,” he whispered. “One day you wake up and you’re in a gestalt. Only you never had a life before that.”

First Aid succeeded in squirming the right way up. “Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t talk about my team.”

“Not used to high grade, are you?” Vortex smiled, and tightened his grip on First Aid’s waist, tail rotors brushing gently against his side.

“Don’t change the subject!” The anger rose again, pulled through from the Combaticon gestalt bond. Brawl or Onslaught or Blast Off, or all three. First Aid didn’t know, and he didn't care. “You took me away from them, you need to let me go. They’ll worry, they’ll...”

“I took care of it,” Vortex said. “They think you’re off on some medically sanctioned trip to find yourself or something.”

“How…” First Aid shook his head; this was unbelievable. “How did you…?”

“You left them a note,” Vortex said. “Swindle knows these squishies. They’re good at sneaking into Autobot bases. And Swin’s got a hell of a line in forgery.” One of his hands drifted down, cupping First Aid’s aft.

“They’ll figure it out,” First Aid said, trying to wriggle back away from the groping. “They’ll know it wasn’t me.” _Eventually_ , he thought. _Please, oh Primus please, sooner rather than later_.

Vortex hauled him further up. “I get the team thing,” he said. “You’ll see them again, but not yet.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” First Aid said. “You want a partnership? That isn’t it. You don’t isolate someone and expect them to want to be with you.”

“Sometimes works,” Vortex shrugged, then he grinned again. “Aww frag, you’re cute when you’re torqued. I was joking about sometimes. How about occasionally?”

“It’s no better.” First Aid slumped. He felt weird. Too hot, too tired, too crackly. The only thing was to keep on talking. “What’s wrong with you?” Although he might have wanted to be more careful with what he said.

“Aside from not getting under your armour yet?” Vortex said. “Nothing.”

“Don’t say things like that.” First Aid cringed, tensing against the ache in his valve. He took his optics offline, then rebooted them to clear the static. “Doing… that won’t make it any better.”

“Sure it will,” Vortex purred. He looped one arm around First Aid’s waist to hold him still, and leaned up, then rolled them both over.

First Aid squirmed, not just against Vortex’s grip and the odd softness of the cushions, but also his own embarrassment. His spike had come free, the tip leaking lubricant and smearing on Vortex’s armour.

“Gorgeous,” Vortex commented, and took him in hand. He revved his primary engine, the vibrations travelling to echo through First Aid’s equipment. “You gonna show me your schematics now?” he said, as his fingers spread the lubricant, and the nodes began to spark.

“No.” First Aid shook his head, or tried to. He was afraid to move too far in case his other covers flew open as his spike hatch had done. “That was an accident,” he said, “not an invitation.”

“Then how about you accidentally open the other one?” Vortex suggested. With a hand at the small of First Aid’s back, he shifted him fully onto the cushions. First Aid writhed, trying to bring his knees together, but Vortex had the edge, his frame so much better equipped to cope with the influx of high grade. He eased First Aid’s legs apart, and bent to lick the seams of his valve cover.

“Not… an invitation.” First Aid wasn’t sure how he held out so long. His spark flared and his circuits sang. His valve clenched on nothing, nodes sparking to the trickle of lubricant. The glossa tickled and tingled, turning warmth into heat and making the charge come in a succession of dangerous little peaks.

He almost wished the programming would choose for him, hitting the override while his spark sent out those little tendrils of energy, searching for a hardline connection that wasn’t there. But it wouldn’t; as far as free will went, it gave him that much.

“All right!” he cried. “All right, I’ll do it, just stop, please stop.”

Vortex stopped. Or rather, he paused long enough to un-spool their cables and unite connectors with ports. Then he licked the full length of First Aid’s spike from base to tip, and the charge soared.

It took a while to marshal his thoughts. First Aid struggled against himself, fumbling through his own databanks, searching for the schematics while Vortex kissed him all over, revelling in the thrill of spark energy zinging along the connection. Finally, First Aid found what he was searching for, and isolated the relevant parts.

“Here,” he said, wincing as he sent the copy through. He wanted to break the connection, but the thought was just too much. He needed to be complete, _the programming_ needed to be complete, and he wasn’t sure any more where one ended and the other began.

“You really are perfect,” Vortex said, and slid a hand beneath his aft. “It’s like we were made for each other. You can open up now.”

He should have asked for proof, a copy of Vortex’s schematics in return. He should have done something to delay, but he didn’t. His cover slid back and he howled at the shock of a hot slick glossa flicking across his nodes. He was confused for a moment – he’d thought he was getting spiked – but then it came to him over the connection, as easily as if it was his own thought: he needed to enjoy this, so he needed to be prepared.

He gripped the cushions, crushing the alien fabrics, trying to stop his valve from contracting, trying to resist the urgent sear of current.

But he couldn’t resist the flood of information. So many insights, so great an intimacy. Fragments of memory, of Vortex’s previous conquests, of his fantasies and hopes and the intrusive cold pragmatism of his transaction with Swindle. His fierce joy at having gained even the partial schematics, and his intense arousal at being connected, and the prospect of making his bond-mate overload with only his glossa.

The attention was flattering, and wholly unnerving. Even more so because First Aid could no longer disentangle his own thoughts and needs and feelings from the urging of the spark bond or the force of Vortex’s lust surging through the connection.

It was perverse and wrong and contrary to his every genuine wish, but scrap it felt good.

The thought carried him to overload, and left him panting and heated, and far from satisfied. It was the connection, feeding him Vortex’s needs and desires. Alone, he would have curled up and forced himself to recharge. But he wasn’t alone.

“Would you like to move?” Vortex said. “Or are you happy on your back?”

“Stop talking.” First Aid took his optics offline. He couldn’t bear the weight of that gaze any more, the fierce triumph in that smile. But the concern that filled the connection for one brief, horrible moment – that, he could bear even less. And the press of a warm mouth against his own, the realisation that this time he’d forgotten to replace his mask… He didn’t bother to resist, and instead thrust himself into the fantasy that this was all a defrag dream, and that he couldn’t really taste his own lubricants on his enemy’s lips.

* * *

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t informed consent. The bond was coercive, but so was life, Vortex reasoned. It was just the way of things.

What mattered was that the Autobot had opened up, mouth and valve and spark and _everything_. So wholly and completely his that Vortex could dip into his memories, could taste and touch and see at will. Some things were still closed to him, but he had no need for the Protectobot gestalt bond, the medical notes, or the rest of the medic’s schematics. Not with the medic himself bucking beneath him, his hips rolling up and his hands clutching at the cushions above his head.

Vortex delayed as long as he could, enjoying the kiss and the closeness and the warmth of climax radiating from his bond-mate’s frame. Then he released his spike, and spared a moment to ensure they were properly aligned before pressing slowly and steadily into his prize.

First Aid tensed, and frag he was tight. But the overload had relaxed him, and a few shallow thrusts were all that he needed for the lining to start cycling open again.

It was a delicious kind of torture, holding back, moving slow and gentle in pace with the Protectobot’s enticing writhing. Vortex’s spike slid over his ceiling node, and First Aid whimpered. His optics were off, and his movements more responsive, his kisses more fervent.

If only he could let go like this all the time.

And hot scrap, if only the charge could build and build and never release. Vortex could stay like this all cycle, all quartex.

First Aid moaned, his valve clenching and quivering. Vortex slid an arm beneath the Protectobot’s waist, and thrust faster, harder; and the response was thoroughly gratifying. The valve sparked and pulsed; the Autobot bucked to match his pace, and his pale lips parted in a wanton sigh as his energy field flared in wonderful synchronicity with the fluctuations of his spark.

Vortex slowed again, savouring the thrill of the ceiling node grinding against his spike. He bent to kiss the Autobot’s throat; if he was careful, he could really make this last.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you awake?” Vortex said, although he already knew the answer. They were still connected from the night before, their sparks exchanging periodic flickers of energy without any conscious instruction.

First Aid hated it.

He buried his face in the cushions, and tried to pretend he hadn’t heard. His valve was sore, but aching again in defiance of its earlier treatment - the slow, torturous stretch of Vortex’s spike, and the overloads so intense they’d caused minor systems brownouts all over his frame. Pleasure lanced through his circuits, and Vortex’s engine revved. The Combaticon rolled closer and began to stroke his back.

“Mmm, you’re so smooth.” he said. “We’ve got half a joor…”

First Aid tried to burrow deeper into the mountain of fabric, but the interface burned, the need intense, and a new notice sprung up in his HUD: ‘For optimum systems performance, maintain hardline connection for a further three breems’.

The ache in his valve worsened, enhanced no doubt by the relentless flood of lust from the rotary. Thinking was hard, and denying his arousal was impossible. His spike slid free, and he squirmed to build some friction against the cushions.

As before, resistance truly was useless. First Aid allowed himself to be manoeuvred, not on his back this time, but sitting upright, pressed against Vortex’s chest and straddling his hips, while Vortex made himself comfortable on the edge of the seat. Such a vulnerable position, with his legs spread and his spike out, and his valve exposed to the repulsively gentle exploration of Vortex’s fingers.

He wished it was anyone but Vortex. A fingertip slid past his rim, then another and he moaned, clinging to Vortex’s shoulders. He wanted to close his mask, to switch off his vocaliser, but he hadn’t the focus, and could do nothing but whimper quietly as Vortex slowly massaged his ceiling node and brought him steadily to a shuddering, gasping overload without once augmenting his charge via the interface.

It wasn’t enough.

Primus, First Aid despised the bond. He despised the imperative for them to climax together, and the augmentations in the programming which didn’t simply allow that to happen, but which made it virtually unavoidable. He despised the way his spark flared and his valve spiralled greedily open at the first push of Vortex’s spike. And most of all, he despised how easy it was to get lost in the pleasure and to imagine for just a little while that he was OK, and that none of this was real.

Vortex thrust up and he yelped. But the sting faded, along with the soreness, eased away by the false reassurance of the bond. He seized a rotor, gripping it hard, as Vortex held him firmly by the hips and guided him over the spike.

It went on for far too long.

He pressed his face against Vortex’s throat until all he could see was a mass of blurry grey. The rotor creaked in his grip and he let go, only for Vortex to hold him still, his valve full and stretched and aching so badly, and to guide his hand back and wrap his fingers even tighter around the fragile slip of metal.

“Squeeze,” Vortex whispered, and began to move him again.

Their climax came hard and heady, hitting each system in sequence, an intense blur of pleasure and heat and thrilling, crackling energy.

First Aid whined, his hands clenching along with his valve. He brought himself up, easing the spike out then in a few more times before coming to an exhausted rest.

Vortex held him, their equipment sparking and their cables humming with the aftershocks. “Frag, you feel so good,” he murmured. “You like that?”

Like it? How in the name of Cybertron was he meant to _like_ it? Irritation flared, and this time First Aid was horribly afraid that it was all his own. He pushed back as far as he could from Vortex’s chest with his valve still full and Vortex’s hands so firmly on his hips. He looked up, meeting the hopeful crimson gaze.

“I hate you,” First Aid said, as the revelation hit. It was horrible; he never wanted to feel that for anyone, ever. Then, in a broken whisper, “What have you done to me?”

But Vortex only smiled and stroked his back. “Liberating,” he said, “isn’t it?”

* * *

Blast Off was torqued. Even if Vortex couldn’t see it in the quiver of his ailerons, it would have been obvious from the blank hostility of the shuttlerformer’s energy field.

He sat in alt mode, his massive engines idling and his cargo bay door wide open. Brawl and Swindle loaded him up; cube after cube of standard grade energon, Sheol’s contribution to the Decepticon cause. There were crates as well, secured tight against Blast Off’s walls. Experimental ordnance from Swindle’s contacts, most likely, the reason Megatron sent them rather than the triple-changers to collect the toll.

“Vortex,” Onslaught snapped. “Don’t just stand there. Autobot, lend a hand.”

First Aid shivered, but he set to work. The bond synchronised more often now, an ever-spinning reel of updates running alongside the gestalt bond. But unlike the gestalt bond, it opened only by itself, with no option of closure, telling Vortex exactly what he needed to know to help steer his bond mate in the right psychological direction.

First Aid was tired, the bond informed him. His valve was sore, and his limbs ached. He was mildly hung over from the single cube of high grade, but otherwise physically fine. He obeyed Onslaught without a shadow of protest, but kept his distance from the others as much as he could. And he certainly noticed that something was wrong with Blast Off.

Something was wrong with Onslaught too. Another power struggle, perhaps. An argument about Blast Off being left to guard the prisoner, or about Onslaught’s adherence to the Constructicons’ refusal to rebuild his portion of HQ on the Moon.

Something petty, no doubt. Vortex ignored him and opted to watch First Aid as he helped load the cubes.

He looked fragile, and far too small to be carrying two cubes at once, although he was obviously perfectly capable. Vortex sent a pulse of approval via the bond, and received surprise and a hint of fear in return.

“All right, we're done,” Onslaught said. “Swindle and Brawl, get on the flight deck and strap yourselves in, and Swindle, I’d recommend closing your mouth again because whatever’s about to come out of it isn’t something I’m willing to listen to right now. Vortex, make sure the cargo’s secure.”

Vortex nodded, and steered First Aid back towards the door. “Hop in,” he said.

“Cargo first,” Onslaught barked. “Fragging around second. Now get to it!”

First Aid scrambled aboard, and found himself an empty corner.

“Hey, Blast Off,” Vortex said. “This is all secure right?”

“Anterior strap fourteen-A requires tightening by five notches,” Blast Off replied; the speakers made his voice sound distant and a little tinny. “And if you don't stop your Autobot from fidgeting, I’m going to shoot him as soon as we land.”

“He’s not fidgeting.” Vortex tightened the requisite straps, then went to check the others. “He’s just nervous.”

“And whose fault is that?” Blast Off rumbled.

“I’m gonna guess… Brawl and Swindle,” Vortex said. First Aid huddled further into his corner and stared at the floor. “Oh, and you. Stop being so fraggin’ mean.”

Blast Off’s speakers crackled. “Aft.”

“Stop arguing,” Onslaught boomed. He stepped aboard, the door hissing neatly shut behind him. He gave the cargo a cursory glance, then turned to the Autobot. “Come here.”

Vortex found a seat and braced again takeoff. The forces were nothing compared to the acceleration needed to escape Earth’s atmosphere, but Monacus wasn’t a small asteroid and the cargo wasn’t exactly inert.

First Aid held on to the netting as the shuttle took off, and a new wave of anxiety came through the bond. It was no wonder; Onslaught had that predatory look about him. Probably still sore about whatever had happened with Blast Off.

“Now,” Onslaught snapped. He swayed as the acceleration pushed them out of the grip of the asteroid and into empty space, but didn’t stumble.

Vortex relaxed against the bulkhead. “He won’t shoot you,” he said. “It’s OK.”

“It’s not OK,” First Aid snapped, but he did as he was told.

“Acceptable,” Onslaught commented. He grabbed First Aid’s shoulder by his injured wheel and turned him around. To his credit, the medic didn’t cry out or complain, and he didn’t flinch too much either. All good signs. “I take it you’re familiar with the concept of gestalts holding everything in common,” Onslaught said.

First Aid nodded, and the defiant look he gave was a wonder to behold.

“We’re a little different,” Onslaught explained. “But the rights of command remain the same.”

“Rights?” First Aid glanced at Vortex. “You can’t,” he began, but Onslaught cut him off.

“Get on your back and spread your legs.”

Vortex sighed and slouched further down the seat; there was something about Onslaught’s voice that made his interface circuits burn.

“What?” First Aid shook his head, backed away. “I… Why? I don’t want-”

“Just relax,” Vortex said. “He’s good, I promise. You’ll like it.”

“What are you doing?” The medic’s optics were bright, his hands shaking. “You can’t _share_ me, I’m not a possession, I...”

“You’re an augmentation of this team,” Onslaught said. “I won’t ask again.” This didn’t have the desired effect; First Aid’s back hit the wall, his vents cycling like crazy. “Vortex,” Onslaught ordered, “restrain him.”

“He just needs time,” Vortex said. “And you ordered him, you didn’t ask. He likes it if you say please and scrap.” He heaved himself out of his seat, and went over to the Autobot. “Hey,” he said, “It’s all right.” First Aid was trembling, terrified, but he let Vortex take hold of him and guide him to the clearest patch of floor. “Here,” he said, while Onslaught growled his impatience a few short steps away. He knelt, tugging First Aid down, leaning the Autobot’s back against his chest. “I’ll keep hold of you,” he whispered. “Ons ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“Better,” Onslaught huffed, and his optics had that gleam that showed he was smiling beneath his mask. He knelt in front of the Autobot and slid a hand between his knees. First Aid started to struggle, but Vortex held him tight, keeping his arms and those gorgeous, delicate hands behind him and well out of harm’s way.

With a bit of force, Onslaught got his legs apart. “Now open,” he said, and the stark terror that flooded the bond was a little disconcerting. Vortex retracted his mask, and used his glossa to search out the sensitive spots on the back of First Aid’s neck. The Autobot shuddered and ground back against him; it was an improvement, but the fear remained.

“Now your hatch,” Onslaught said.

“You’ll be fine,” Vortex murmured into the cables. “If you can take me, you can take him. And you’ll still be a bit loose from earlier. All you need to do is relax.”

“Now,” Onslaught said, and dragged his fingers over the cover.

“Gentle,” Vortex hissed. “Be careful with him.”

Onslaught huffed. “Get him open.” But perhaps a little rough treatment was all he needed, because First Aid tensed and his valve cover slid aside. “Much better,” Onslaught purred, and Vortex’s equipment twinged in sympathy. He moved his attention to the medic’s shoulder, and watched as Onslaught released his spike. That was always nice to see, and oh scrap even nicer was the view as Onslaught pushed forward and the tip of his spike vanished behind the Protectobot’s armour.

“He’s tight,” Onslaught commented, and First Aid hissed as a little more of the spike disappeared. “Slick though. Is that the spark bond, or do you keep him all revved up?”

“A bit of both,” Vortex said. “Hot scrap…” He knelt up, leaning over for a better view. The valve rim strained, the parts shifting and realigning with a tantalising reluctance as Onslaught’s spike eased him open. There was a tiny smear of silver from earlier on the very edge of his armour; they must have missed that in the washracks. And there was the soft gleam of lubricant on his rim, and on the shaft of Onslaught’s spike as he slowly withdrew.

Then he pushed forward again, and First Aid flinched, crying out. His head went back and his fingers scrabbled against Vortex’s thigh.

“Oh, now that’s good,” Onslaught said. He hooked his arms under First Aid’s knees, and increased his pace. “ _Frag_ , yes.”

First Aid gasped, then began to whimper. But his systems registered no damage, and Vortex put it down to the Autobot’s distaste for being coerced. Slowly, he transferred both of First Aid’s wrists into one of his hands, and operated the manual override on the medic’s conventional interface cover. He slipped his plug into the port on First Aid’s waist, and gave the medic a taste of how much he was enjoying the show.

Onslaught sniffed, amused, and continued to plunge himself deep into First Aid’s valve. As the interface warmed, the Autobot’s whimpering morphed into series of hot little gasps. He would need help to overload, but that shouldn’t be a problem. The problem, Vortex mused, would be eradicating the fear by the next time Onslaught felt the need to exert his dominance.

Vortex stroked First Aid’s hands, and sent a command to make the medic tingle from his tires to the soles of his feet. “You’re so gorgeous,” he said softly. “No wonder everyone wants you.”

Onslaught’s engine roared, his armour steaming. Vortex increased the current, sending burst after burst of powerful jolts into the Autobot. Each carried a command to make his valve glow with pleasure, to bring him ever closer to overload.

“Ah!” First Aid bucked, his every cable tense as the charge peaked and the overload shook through him.

Onslaught growled in appreciation and thrust hard, then held himself inside as he too came. When he finally withdrew, the silver of his climax trickled down to drip onto the floor.

* * *

First Aid refused to move. Vortex released his arms, but it didn’t matter. He was as much a prisoner as if he were kept constantly in chains. Especially aboard the shuttle, with at least three Combaticons sharing in his humiliation.

He slumped, sliding off Vortex’s lap onto the floor. Something warm dribbled from his valve, transfluid and lubricant, and probably a trace of energon. He didn’t bother closing the hatch; they were bound to want to rape him again.

Onslaught left, vanishing onto the flight deck. For a moment First Aid was afraid that Brawl and Swindle would come through and they would also take a turn, but no-one else arrived.

“Hey,” Vortex said, and the unnerving strength of his concern washed through the bond. “You’re hurt. That didn’t show up in the data.”

 _That’s because I hid it_ , First Aid thought. He rolled onto his side and brought his knees up to his chest. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

“You should have said.” Vortex pried his legs apart. “I’d have made him go slower.”

First Aid cringed. “There’s no ‘should’,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

“No.” Vortex flipped him onto his back again, and rummaged around in one of the crates. He pulled out a small round tub. “OK, hold still, this is probably gonna be a bit cold…”

First Aid scuttled back, slamming his knees together with a clang. “What is that stuff? Where did you get it?” He realised belatedly that ‘don’t touch me’ should have been his first demand, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the words.

“Numbing scrap for burnt-out sensors,” Vortex replied. “Got it from the med kit.”

The med kit didn’t look as though it had been opened since Blast Off’s Earth alt had been built. “I don’t want it,” First Aid said. He could deal with the pain himself, and the leakages.

“We got another four joors before we hit the space bridge,” Vortex said. “So tough. You can frag around in med bay all you like when we’re back at base, but right now you’re gonna get numbed up.”

It was another case where resistance was futile. But at least Vortex wasn’t pretending that he wanted this. He let Vortex approach, hating the sudden yearning of his spark, the need for physical contact. And when it came, he hated the conflicting warmth and revulsion that made his armour crawl beneath the Combaticon’s hands.

“You wanna read the label?” Vortex said and handed over the tub. First Aid did, but he didn’t want to admit it. He glanced over the contents; active ingredients were the same as in his own supplies back home; inactive ingredients were different, but they weren’t harmful. He took a shuddering vent, thinking of his team and the note Vortex had left for them – if only they could tell he was in trouble.

After a while, Vortex took the tub from him and unscrewed the lid. First Aid continued staring at the spot the tub had occupied. His hands were scratched, and there was a fragment of gold – a few fibres of cloth – caught in the seam at the base of his thumb. From the cushions, he thought, and glared at the threads as Vortex tugged apart his knees and slid a chilly, gel-coated finger inside his valve.

At least this didn’t make him want to frag. He wanted to purge, not just the high grade from the night before, but the programming, the memories, every dirty, tainted touch and loathsome thought.

He found he wanted the pain. Not because it hurt, but because it was a mark of the violence that had been done to him. The pain counteracted the guilt, helped ease the shame. When Vortex erased it, it was one more act of denial, robbing First Aid of yet another choice.

“I know what’s best for me,” First Aid said quietly.

“Sometimes,” Vortex conceded. “Not now.” Another finger-full of gel, another slow, gentle intrusion.

“What do you want from me?” First Aid choked on the words. He lay his head on his arm and stared at the pink glow of energon reflected in the single tiny porthole.

Vortex leaned over him, one finger still in his valve. “Later,’ he said, “I want you to spike me.” He pushed the finger deeper, up to the knuckle, smearing a thin film of numbing gel over the most sensitive of node clusters. The salve took a moment to work, and First Aid shivered. “I want you to talk to me. Properly. I want to learn all there is to know about you. I want to teach you about Cybertron and the Golden Age and everything you missed out on.” He withdrew, and leaned closer, whispering now. “I want you to set us free.”

First Aid looked up, he couldn’t help it. Vortex’s optics were dim, his expression for once serious.

“You mean your team,” First Aid said quietly; it was as clear as any flash of insight the bond had ever given him. And it was just as clear that this was the nebulous and sinister plan Vortex had been formulating. “I don’t…” _No_ was the answer, he thought. No, he wouldn’t help them. He wouldn’t do whatever it was Vortex wanted. Onslaught had forced him, Brawl had groped him. Blast Off was rude, and Swindle… only Primus knew what Swindle was thinking, but it couldn’t be good.

Vortex nodded, but said nothing more about his plan. He drew back again and smeared a little more of the gel over the rim of First Aid’s valve. “Your self repair works better if you close the hatch, right?” he said.

 _Stop acting like you care_ , First Aid thought, but Vortex _did_ care, and that only made it worse. It was consideration without any insight into his needs as a thinking, feeling person. Or the wrong insights. Vortex knew how to play him, but that was all, just a superficial manipulation helped along by the spark bond. He lacked understanding.

“Leave me alone,” First Aid said. He drew his hatch across and sealed his armour, then pulled himself back into the corner by the cargo netting and the wooden crates. A smear of transfluid still gleamed against the purple floor. “Please.”

“Later.” Vortex joined him in the corner. “You don’t need to be alone right now.” He put his arm around First Aid’s shoulders, his rotors catching in the net. “You’ll get over all that personal boundaries scrap.” Their energy fields synchronised, and Vortex sighed. “We’ll make this work.”

First Aid stared at the energon. It was going to be a long four joors.

* * *

It was night when they returned. The lights of Combaticon HQ made the crater glow. Whichever country they were in, the human government must at least have tolerated their presence.

First Aid leant against Vortex, exhausted and nervous and shivery. He needed to defrag, needed space too and time away from his Deception captors. His valve was numb, his self-repair working at peak efficiency, but that did nothing for the sense of harsh violation, or the needy undulation of his spark. He wanted to cry.

“What’s wrong?” Vortex asked. First Aid stared at him. How could he not know? Even disregarding the bond, how could Vortex think it was all right to have allowed – to have been complicit – in what Onslaught had done to him?

But he obviously thought it was fine. First Aid brought up the memory of Red Alert’s files. Vortex had no conscience, no empathy, nothing resembling the normal drive of any sentient being to love and be loved. To preserve life. First Aid needed to remember that.

Vortex was stunted, and it was horrible how the thought inspired sympathy more than pity. It wasn’t just the bond, but his own core programming. There was nothing as strong in that moment as the urge to find the cause of Vortex’s malfunction, and to repair him.

First Aid wrenched himself from Vortex’s embrace and hauled himself upright. He wasn’t going to fix the killer, and he certainly wasn’t going to free him or his team – whatever Vortex had meant by that.

“Offload the cargo!” Onslaught bellowed, and thank goodness the Combaticon leader was already walking away, across the dark swath of tarmac towards a cluster of angular shadows.

First Aid’s servos whined and his gears crunched, but he was damned if he’d admit it. His condition could wait, and Vortex’s ridiculous concern along with it. He dismissed the warnings, and the pain in his over-stretched hip joints, and set to unloading the cubes.

Vortex’s approval was immediate and overwhelming. First Aid ignored him. He ignored Brawl as well, as the tank hopped past him into the cargo hold, and Swindle whose low muttering was only just audible. He hoped the tiredness would infect Vortex, and he’d be able to recharge without having the indignity of Vortex’s hands upon him, of the rotary’s valve settling on his spike.

“You can keep the tiger,” Brawl said, jostling past him to grab the final few cubes. “Ons says you’re stayin’ with us. That make you an employee or what?”

“A prisoner,” First Aid responded. He set his final cube down and looked around for something else to move, but there was nothing.

Brawl laughed and shook his head. “You’re cool,” he said, “for an Autodork.” He nudged Blast Off’s side with his foot. “You’re empty!”

“I never would have known that.” Blast Off said. “Thank goodness you’re here to tell me. And do you have to shout? Oh wait, I forgot. What you lack in processing power you make up for in audial-aggravating volume.” He huffed, then transformed, and First Aid was captivated for a moment by the mechanism of mass shifting.

“Frag you,” Brawl said cheerfully, and went over to talk to Swindle.

Blast Off glared. “You can stop staring,” he snapped at First Aid. “Both of you.” He gave another derisory huff, lifted one of the energon cubes from the pile, and stalked off across the crater floor towards the central building.

Both of them? Oh scrap, yes, both of them. Vortex was also staring. His fascination was clear, his admiration too. Then Blast Off was gone, and Vortex’s attention shifted back to First Aid. “Wanna go flying?”

First Aid stared. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said.

“Sure I do,” Vortex responded, and First Aid shivered as he approached. “You need something to take your mind off scrap. Something fun.”

First Aid knew what was coming, but still he didn’t run. What was the point? He made himself a dead weight, offering neither resistance nor help as Vortex picked him up.

“So you’re tired,” Vortex continued. “Maybe something relaxing. An oil bath? Swin’s got this hot tub over on the roof of delta block.”

“I just want to recharge,” First Aid said, but his low whisper was drowned out by the arrival of Swindle.

“Are my audials glitched?” He sidled up to them, his purple optics over-bright and his grin full of unpleasant promise. “Or did I just hear you offer use of the facilities to your… mate?”

“And?” Vortex said. The change in him was instant and stark. First Aid tensed, preparing to be dropped, but the hostility and revulsion that coloured the bond failed to bleed through to his actions.

“It’s a big tub,” Swindle said. “I better come along in case you get lost.”

“That’s the stupidest excuse I ever heard,” Brawl laughed. He nudged Swindle out of the way and patted First Aid on the head. “I wanna come,” he said, as Vortex tugged First Aid out of arm’s reach. “But I gotta go do some slag with the boss.” His engine snarled, and his comm equipment buzzed. He sighed, and turned back in the direction Onslaught had left earlier. “Yeah, I’m comin’.”

“I don’t,” First Aid began, but Swindle again interrupted.

“And of course, there’s the matter of payment for services rendered.” His smile was frankly terrifying. His optics flicked from Vortex to First Aid and back again. “Fourteen breems and seventy-four astroseconds left,” he said. “Unless you want to negotiate interest for delayed payment.”

First Aid clung to Vortex, and tried to heave himself back onto his feet. He wanted to get away from Swindle. And he wanted Swindle away from Vortex too; the discord was palpable, a wrong note in the terrible, unnatural harmony of their sparks.

When Swindle leaned over and ran his hand openly along one of Vortex’s rotors, First Aid wanted to shoot him.

He groaned and buried his face in the crook of his arm. He didn’t need this, but Vortex didn’t tell Swindle where to shove it. And he didn’t transform and fly them somewhere the groundframe couldn’t follow.

Instead, he spoke. “How long do you want?” he said.

“Depends.” Swindle answered, and First Aid didn’t have to see him to know his smile had widened. “Throw in your little Auto-toy and I’ll clear the debt in a third the time.”

“No,” Vortex said a split astrosecond before First Aid cringed. “He’s not part of the deal.”

“I did help you get him,” Swindle said. “And you don’t want the poor little thing feeling left out, do you?”

“He’s not in the mood,” Vortex said. “And if you touch him, I’ll rip off your hands and make you eat them.”

Swindle’s answering laugh carried a hint of concern. “Then he can watch,” he said. “If he can stay awake.”

* * *

It wasn’t jealousy, First Aid thought. He lay on his side on Vortex’s bunk, watching Swindle run his greedy hands all over the rotary’s frame. He hated it, but it wasn’t jealousy that made him want to push Swindle away; it was Swindle’s effect on Vortex.

First Aid examined the feeling, applying diagnostic methodologies to distract himself from the scent of ozone and the sound of Swindle’s fervid, caustic demands.

Vortex bent over the berth, aft up, rotors flared. Swindle hauled on them as he thrust, the passage of his spike raising charge, but not enough, and not consistently. Vortex loathed him. The depth of his hatred was frightening, and yet here he was allowing Swindle to… to do _that_ to him.

First Aid didn’t understand, and his confusion mingled with Vortex’s resentment and resignation, with his violent urge to rip Swindle’s spike from his body, and his desperate need to stay calm, to get it over with because Swindle was useful, because Swindle was team. It was sickening and disorientating, and there was no escape.

The discord in his spark became a cacophony, and First Aid curled around himself. His spark hurt; the bond protested, throwing up warning after warning, and how in the universe had Vortex not felt the same when Onslaught had… when Vortex had held him, and… First Aid couldn’t bring himself to think of it. He had to seal the memory away, to draw back from the anger and the hurt, and the overpowering compulsion to throw Swindle aside and claim his bond-mate, and scrap it was all so wrong.

First Aid hunched tighter, covering his face with his hands. Vortex hadn’t wanted him to watch, but Swindle had offered a bargain – a remission of some part of whatever the interrogator owed his team mate – and Vortex had accepted.

He hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

“Stay still, stay still oh frag yeah!” Swindle moaned aloud, his engine whining, and First Aid’s spark echoed with the dull failure of Swindle’s overload to make the charge in Vortex peak.

“Get out,” Vortex said. The bunk shifted as he rolled over, coming to rest beside First Aid. “And you can kill the lights on your way.”

“Twelve breems, fifteen astroseconds,” Swindle said, as he packed his equipment away. “Be seeing you.”

The lights flickered off, and it was a while before First Aid’s optics could register the dim luminescence from the window. He wanted to flinch as Vortex pulled him close, but all he managed was a weak shrug.

He found the energy to squirm when he felt Vortex’s spike extend. “Please, no!” The words were a sob, but Vortex was already stroking him, one hand moving down to tease the seams of his spike cover, the other reaching for the manual release on the panel at his waist.

“Shhh,” Vortex hushed him, “it’s OK. I know you’re still hurt. I just wanna connect with you.” He kissed the crown of First Aid’s helm. “I want you so much.”

“How can you…” First Aid squirmed. “How can you want anything after that?”

“That was just team scrap,” Vortex said. His tone was dismissive, as though it didn’t matter, but his energy field said different. “I won’t ask you to watch again.”

“You didn’t ask me,” First Aid snapped. “You told me. You made me watch. I…” His vocaliser squeaked as Vortex’s spike slid between his legs. He froze. “You said that you wouldn’t!”

“A little friction isn’t going to hurt,” Vortex said. He rocked his hips, rubbing his spike against the firmly closed valve cover. “I need this. I’m not… compatible with Swin.” He smoothed his palm over the housing of First Aid’s spike.

“You can’t stand him.” The swell of arousal was intense. First Aid tried to disassociate, but the software grounded him in his own frame. Still, he held his spike cover closed.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Vortex said. He pulled back, but only for a moment, and when his spike again slid across the heat of First Aid’s valve cover, it was slick and the passage far smoother. “But he’s gone now, he doesn’t matter.”

First Aid tensed, willing his spike cover to stay closed. “How can you say that?” His voice felt like the crunching of gears. “How can you want… any of this after what he did?”

“It was just a thing,” Vortex said. “I owe him. You’re still mad with me about Ons, aren’t you?”

This time First Aid did flinch. He curled in on himself as much as was possible, and ducked his head. What in Primus’ name could he say to that?

“Here,” Vortex nudged aside the cover on his waist. He hooked them up by touch alone while his lips sought out the side of First Aid’s throat. The connection was searing, the force of Vortex’s need for him mingled with his lingering distaste for Swindle, and his realisation that maybe he might have got something horribly wrong. Then their sparks flared in union, and First Aid groaned in denial as his covers drew back and his spike extended into Vortex’s hand.

His valve was bare. The thought was awful, and worse still, with his spike out and their sparks pulsing he couldn’t make the cover close. He winced, preparing himself for the inevitable violation. It would hurt, he thought, even with the salve. Just like everything else.

But Vortex continued to slide against him, over and not in, while he coaxed the charge to rise with slow, rhythmic strokes of First Aid’s spike.

“Show me why,” Vortex murmured. “Why are you mad at me?”

Why now? First Aid didn’t want to be anchored. He wanted to be free, to lose himself in sensation. To let the spark bond give him that false – but oh-so-credible – immersion in rightness and comfort and pleasure. In safety.

Vortex caressed the tip of First Aid’s spike, bringing the base of his thumb over the heat of a particularly sensitive node. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Just show me. I’ll understand.”

“No you won’t!” First Aid gasped, pushing back with his aft. He clutched Vortex’s tail rotors, his fingers trembling. The echo of a sultry, reassuring pleasure came to him with each small movement of his hands.

“What won’t I understand?” Vortex pressed. He spoke soft and calm, in contrast with the ever more urgent slide of his spike. First Aid’s valve rippled, a few nodes firing despite the numbing gel.

“All of it!” he cried, squeezing the rotors and his valve and his thighs all at once. The blades screeched, and Vortex moaned, then the world went momentarily black with the effects of the rotary's overload. Fluid splashed over the mouth of First Aid’s valve, and a light pain blossomed at his throat as Vortex bit down. Then Vortex was moving, rearranging the cables and straddling his legs, and the heat of Vortex’s mouth around his spike was at one and the same time the last thing he wanted to feel, and utterly, thoroughly wonderful.

There would be no shared overload this time, and the programming seemed to accept that. It registered the damage to his valve, and acted accordingly. But it didn’t detect, or understand, the damage to his sense of self, to his psyche.

It was violation, all of it. Not just Onslaught's rough spiking, but everything Vortex had done and was doing. First Aid opened his mouth, tried to fire up his vocaliser, but the way Vortex worked his spike robbed the charge from his vocal processors and made his head spin. So he sent it via the connection, a parcel of loathing and anger, his frustration at being held captive, his pain and fear and dread at the transgression of his every physical boundary. The dissonant sense of betrayal as his violator held him still for another.

In return, he got sympathy, patience, caring. “Show me more,” Vortex mumbled, his voice muffled and his words reverberating to the base of First Aid’s spike. He could have looked for himself, the programming held their databanks open for exploration; but he seemed to be waiting for something. Not that First Aid could work out what that was. Not with the charge peaking and his spike pulsing in Vortex’s mouth. Cogent thought was nigh-on impossible.

It was only after the overload, with Vortex languidly licking all trace of fluid from his hardware, that First Aid managed to channel the dregs of his charge to his vocaliser.

“Get what you wanted?” he said, his words harsh with bitterness.

Vortex murmured his assent, and gathered First Aid up again in his arms. “I’ll talk to Ons,” he said. “Next time, he’ll be gentle.”

“Next time?” Oh scrap no. “What do you mean, next time? You can’t… Why do you think you can share me like that?”

“It wasn’t just a frag,” Vortex said. He lay a hand over First Aid’s chest, causing his spark to flare. “You’d know if you’d been built on Cybertron.” Vortex’s regret was intense, and prompted a nauseating wash of shame. “It’s not your fault,” he soothed. “Your makers messed up. They built you on this slag-forsaken rock, and didn’t tell you scrap about where they came from and where you should have been made. Ons claimed you for a reason. It means he knows how useful you are, and he wants to keep both of us on side. He doesn’t ‘face outside the team, not like that. He needs you ‘cause he needs me. And ‘cause you can do all kinds of scrap we can’t.”

There it was again, that vague impression that Vortex was planning something. But First Aid was too horrified by the thought of Onslaught fucking him again while Vortex watched, or worse – while Vortex held him and cooed useless words of comfort and encouragement – that he let the impression go.

“Felt like a punishment,” First Aid said, and he realised then that it all did. Everything that had happened since the first shot of Vortex’s glue gun had smacked against his tire.

“It’ll be different next time,” Vortex said. “I promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

Morning arrived, and with it the faint patter of desert rain. First Aid endured Vortex’s tight embrace and persistent stroking, but he wasn’t forced to endure another interface. Instead, Vortex took him through the washracks, his touch as cruelly tender as ever, and then to medbay.

Onslaught was there.

He stood by the spare parts rack, a datasheet in his hand. First Aid huddled reflexively against Vortex, hating the approval in his energy field and the calming influence of his spark.

“Go through these,” Onslaught said. He lay the datasheet down on a heap of similar pages. “I want you to look for anomalies, do you understand?”

First Aid shook his head. “Me?”

“Of course you,” Onslaught snapped. “You’re the medical genius, or so I’ve been told. Vortex, training, one breem.”

“Gimme a nanosec?” Vortex said, and his deference made First Aid queasy.

“One breem,” Onslaught repeated. His visor flared, and his scrutiny was intense. “Medic,” he added, “I can forgive you the accident of your creation. It’s hardly your fault you were made an Autobot.” His disgust was palpable. “But you’ll remember our conversation on Monacus. If you make any effort to contact your team, or any other Autobot, without my express direction, there will be serious consequences. Have I made myself clear?”

First Aid nodded. He wanted to tear himself from the reassurance of Vortex’s touch, but his equilibrium was glitched and he was afraid that he’d fall.

“I can’t hear you,” Onslaught barked. “ _Do you understand?_ ”

“Yes,” First Aid forced the sound, his vision crackling. “I understand.”

“Commander,” prompted Vortex with a whisper.

Onslaught obviously heard, but he didn’t acknowledge it. The silence spooled out, awkward and oppressive until First Aid managed a whisper, “Yes, Commander.”

“Good,” Onslaught said. “Vortex, don’t be late.”

“Well done,” Vortex said as soon as Onslaught had gone. He lifted First Aid onto a repair table and nudged apart his knees. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, as he encouraged First Aid’s legs to encircle his hips. “Just wanna hold you.” And kiss him, First Aid thought, as Vortex took full advantage of the retracted state of his mask.

Proximity made the charge skyrocket, and mingled dizzyingly with the relief that Onslaught had finally gone.

First Aid allowed the oddly gentle press of Vortex’s mouth, and the light dart of the Combaticon’s glossa against the tip of his own. His technique was familiar now, although he lingered in an way that was completely new. It wasn’t like before, this wasn’t preparation for interface – much as their sparks were clearly ready – but kissing for enjoyment.

His valve spiralled open, and one of his damaged nodes sparked. First Aid winced.

“You want me to take a look?” Vortex said. “Or can you sort it by yourself?”

First Aid shook his head, and pulled Vortex back into the kiss. Coolant roared through his pipes, and his circuits hummed hard enough to keep his mind reeling. Let his valve do what the programming compelled it to do, it didn’t matter; like this, he didn’t have to think. It was as close as he could get to escape.

* * *

When Vortex left, the charge remained. First Aid didn’t want it, but he wanted the memory of Onslaught between his legs even less. At least the bond helped him with that.

It was the only mercy.

He rolled his shoulders, the cogs grinding. His limbs were weak, his joints stiff and all his fluids were low.

A quick search of Combaticon medbay supplied him with everything he needed to replenish himself, plus the tools and parts required to fix his broken comm equipment. He set to work.

Not that Onslaught would let him use his comms, but the urge to mend himself was as fierce a compulsion as the need to couple with Vortex. Unlike the need to interface, however, it came from his core programming and not the spark bond, and it was very welcome.

A distant explosion made the shelves rattle and the trolleys clatter. It was such a familiar sound from his months with Ratchet on the Ark that First Aid had to remind himself it wasn’t Superion in training out there. He chocked back a sob, and continued to work on the circuits removed from his arm.

Joors passed, and the explosions became more frequent. The building shook; a soft rain of dust fell from the hanging lights.

First Aid hauled a berth up next to the alt mode repair cradle. Then he dragged out a tarp, and draped it from the cradle like a curtain. After checking the position of all the cameras he could see, he went behind the curtain and tried to force his valve cover to retract.

It was slow going. He kept hearing little creaks and echoes, what sounded like footfalls in the corridor outside. He kept thinking Onslaught would return and find him sequestered in temporary – illusory – privacy, that he would consider it an invitation. He kept thinking Swindle had hidden recording devices, and his every movement could be sold to the entire crew of the Nemesis.

After what seemed like an age, he finally got the cover off.

His valve stung. The numbing gel had slipped, and his damaged sensors were no longer fully protected. He sat up on the berth, and cleaned himself as best he could. The damage wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, and it was a simple task, now that he knew where they were, to deactivate the broken nodes and set a condition that allowed their reactivation only when fully healed.

He couldn’t see that being soon. Vortex was hardly the most patient of people, and Onslaught didn’t strike him as someone who would take kindly to waiting. Further damage was inevitable.

It was only when he’d seen to his valve and his tire, and run all the necessary tests of his comm equipment short of actually using it, that First Aid remembered the datasheets.

Anomalies, Onslaught had said. That implied that something was wrong, or expected to be wrong. First Aid glanced at the window; the sun was high, the clouds dispersed. The song of laser fire was augmented every so often by the roar of a tiger or the aggravated squawking of birds.

He sat down at the bench and sighed. He wished Hot Spot would try his comms, or Blades or anyone. He wished the Aerialbots would fly in and reduce Bruticus to rubble. He wished a lot of things he knew weren’t going to happen. He rubbed his optics, nudged his cube of coolant aside, and began to read.

* * *

“You scared him,” Vortex said. He leant against the crater wall, the sun full in his face. Onslaught sat on a boulder, cleaning his gun. The others were out of earshot, and concealed from view by a natural curve of the rock.

“Good,” Onslaught said. “He should be scared.”

Vortex slumped. “He should be in awe, not terrified. Frag, you know you tore him up?”

“You should have prepared him more thoroughly,” Onslaught countered. He glanced over. “He’s just a means to an end; I expect you to keep that in mind.”

Vortex shook his head. “He’s more than that,” he said. “You know what bonds are like. He’s mine, I’m not giving him up.”

“Of course.” Onslaught stood, and his bulk blocked out the sun. Vortex’s rotors shivered, and he froze, waiting for Onslaught to come close, waiting as that possessive hand forced its way behind him and wrapped around his rotor hub. “But _you_ ,” Onslaught growled, “are mine. And I’ll be dead in the smelter before I let this team fall apart because of an _Autobot_.”

Vortex relaxed against the rock, his back arched over Onslaught’s arm. “It won’t come to that,” he said, his rotors juddering and his output shaft squealing as Onslaught forced his rotors to turn. “He’ll do that thing you asked. It’ll all be good. But you gotta be more gentle with him.”

“I haven’t _got to_ anything.”

“Give him time to get used to you.” Vortex extended his energy field, making it ripple against Onslaught’s chest. “Fuck me in front of him.”

“You don’t demand,” Onslaught said, a rumble of amusement in his voice. “You request.”

“Please.” Vortex squirmed, trying to get his spike cover to make contact with the ridges on Onslaught’s pelvic armour. “Please frag me in front of him. You said he was adjunct to the team, he can be useful long term. We just gotta show him…”

Onslaught ground close for one tantalising moment, then pulled away completely. The ridges left twin scores in Vortex’s teal paint. “If you behave,” he said. “Control yourself, break’s over.”

* * *

The more First Aid read, the more confused he became. Each sheet held a block of code; each block represented one minute portion of a Combaticon’s programming. Line after line, command after command. It was impossible to take it all in, and baffling as to why Onslaught had let him see it.

The pages weren’t labelled, so it wasn’t clear whose was whose, but there were thirty of them in total, and five further pages of readouts which First Aid was certain had come from Bruticus.

He didn't know what he was looking for. Part of the problem was that he didn’t know what was normal. And he couldn’t examine the code in context, just these isolated fragments.

As time wore on, he grew increasingly nervous. What if Onslaught came back before he was finished? What if he found nothing at all? The worry affected his reading, causing him to skip lines, and glyphs to jump. He recalibrated his optics several times a breem; he got up and walked around; he changed the lighting, and forced himself to take on more fuel, but none of it helped.

By the time the door opened, he was shivering.

“I will assume those are for legitimate use,” Blast Off said. He glanced around the room, his visor inscrutable and his wings clicking as they swayed beside his legs. “Don’t get up, I won’t be staying. I merely require a drone.”

First Aid nodded, and clung to his seat. The shuttle moved past him to the shelves, and selected a small, silver repair bot. He glanced down at the readouts.

“What are you looking for?” he said.

First Aid shrugged. “Anomalies,” he said. “Inconsistencies?”

“No you’re not,” Blast Off replied. “You’re looking for integrated code.” He paused, his visor flickering. “But it’s code that shouldn’t be there.” He shook his head, a violent brief movement, as though to dislodge something in his vents. “Onslaught should learn to explain himself properly,” he snapped. “You’ve wasted a day.”

“What code?” First Aid said. He scanned the glyphs, his optics flicking from line to line. “What’s in there?”

“If I could tell you,” Blast Off snarled, “you’d already know. Ask Vortex, he likes pain.”

* * *

First Aid’s creators had done an excellent job on his face. Vortex leant on the doorjamb and watched him for a while. His mask was off and he’d removed his visor completely. Every so often, he rubbed his optics, his expression so serious, so engrossed in the datasheets that Vortex almost regretted disturbing him at all.

Almost.

“Shift’s over,” he said.

First Aid jumped. “I, um… Why?” He grabbed his visor and began to fiddle with the flanges of his helm.

“Downtime.” Vortex grinned, and flicked his rotors. His new dents ached, small scrapes stinging still from the cleaning solution in the washracks. His spark pulsed faster as he neared his mate, and it was wonderfully simple to convince him to put the visor down and pick up where they had left off that morning.

Finally, the medic was eager. Nervous still, but his hands roamed and his lips parted, and he pressed himself against Vortex with all the passion Vortex could ever have asked for. He even traced the scrapes in Vortex’s pelvic armour, following the grooves with his fingertips, but he didn’t ask about them.

His protests were minimal when Vortex lifted him, seating him on the edge of a workbench. He trembled with mingled lust and apprehension, and that ever-present tide of shame. The bond revealed more; desperate to lose himself in the interface, to hide from his thoughts, First Aid was making progress. Not enough by far – but, Vortex reasoned, it was only early days.

The panic when Vortex’s fingers brushed his valve cover was palpable. The medic froze, but relaxed again when Vortex moved on without pressing the issue. There’d be time for that later, when the charge had a chance to accumulate, and the medic’s arousal made him squirm.

Vortex looked forward to it. But the closeness was worth pursuing even without any kind of connection. Before the bond, Vortex had sought intensity. A quick frag against a bulkhead with a mech far too large for him; a long, slow ‘face in an oil bath with one partner above him and another below; a hundred different occasions bent over Onslaught’s desk, subject to his every whim and desire. He’d enjoyed all the pleasures his frame could afford him, but it had never occurred to him that being gentle and slow and tender could be anything more than a means to an end.

With First Aid it was an end in itself. The medic responded perfectly; he squeezed Vortex’s waist between his knees, and ran his fingers over the uneven surface of his rotor hub. His fans flicked on and coolant rushed, and a dozen other changes took place that Vortex only knew about because of the bond.

“I want you to spike me,” Vortex whispered, and the shiver that ran through the medic was delicious.

There were no objections, and even a hint of relief, as Vortex carried First Aid to an adjacent room. It was smaller, cosier, and with a far lower likelihood of Swindle walking in on them. Lightly padded seats lined deep alcoves in the walls – just like their old base back in Kaon – and Vortex lay back on the stiff foam, drawing First Aid down on top of him.

It was what he’d wanted the previous night, and what Swindle had stolen from him. He released his valve cover, and pulled First Aid tight for another passionate, lingering kiss.

When the Autobot entered him, it stole the air from his vents. He gripped the medic’s aft, following the thrusts rather than guiding them, feeling the steady increase of his temperature. Without a hardline connection, they lacked the intimacy of access to each others’ thoughts and memories, but it was becoming easier to share things via the spark bond alone. He sent a flicker of pleasure, a hint of gratitude, and in return he received arousal, desperation, anxiety.

Vortex’s spark glowed, the corona licking little trails of flame around the inside of the casing. He sent a snapshot of his enjoyment to the medic, and began to fondle the rims of his wheels.

First Aid liked that, it was obvious. His engine roared and the shutters drew over his optics as he sighed through the fresh surge of charge. Vortex’s valve rippled. It was too much; the enjoyment, the heat, having the medic spike him, so slow and hot and responsive. The overload built from his circuits out, a growing heat which pooled around his valve and released in a languid flood of current, strong and satisfying.

First Aid slumped over his chest, and Vortex was pleased when he didn’t try to roll off. He simply retracted his equipment, closed his cover, and settled, panting, over the thrumming warmth of Vortex’s spark.

“You fixed your tire,” Vortex commented. And his comms, his levels, everything but his valve. Vortex smoothed his palm over the small of First Aid’s back. “You can go for a drive, if you like. I can match your pace no problem.”

First Aid shook his head.

“I talked with Ons.” That earned him a flinch, and a tightening of the medic’s fingers around the hub of his tail rotors. “He won’t hurt you again, we’re gonna take it nice and slow.” He kissed the top of First Aid’s helm. “You can get as torqued as you like, it’s for your own good.”

The medic looked away.

“Y’know,” Vortex said, as he coaxed the medic’s chin up again. “I’ve never seen you smile.”

This got a stronger reaction. A flash of anger as close to rage as made no difference, and First Aid’s small grounder engine sputtered.

“You’re surprised?” he said, and squirmed as Vortex adjusted his grip.

“I’d like to see you smile.” Vortex grinned and rolled them over, the better to enjoy the medic’s wriggling. “You don’t laugh at my jokes.”

“I wonder why,” First Aid said, then he winced and his optics went blank. He ceased struggling, and his vents slowed. When next he spoke, the sarcasm was gone, and the bond registered nothing but calm determination. “You can’t expect me to be happy.”

“Not expect,” Vortex said. He traced the curve of First Aid’s cheek with the back of his index finger. “Not yet. Tell me how I can make you happy.”

The calm shattered, and for a moment Vortex wished he could take back his demand. But First Aid was nothing if not resilient, and the chill in his optics was rather beautiful.

“You can’t,” he said. “You… I…” He came to a halt, but where words failed him the bond supplied the rest. Violation, imprisonment, isolation, shame, fear; the sum of the past few days encapsulated and transmitted with only a sliver of dread, a tang of homesickness. His vocaliser clicked as it reset, and his vents came purposefully slow. “What you want,” he said, his voice level in defiance of everything his spark had revealed. “A partnership… It can’t start with abduction.”

“How the frag else was I meant to get a hold of you?” Vortex rolled First Aid onto the seat, although he kept an arm draped over his Autobot.

“You weren’t.” The chill remained, at odds with the warm glow of First Aid’s frame.

“’Cause I’m not an Autobot?” Vortex said. That wasn’t it, but sometimes it was worth volunteering the wrong information just to be corrected.

“Because you kill people,” First Aid snapped. “For _fun_. Because you torture and you destroy and you take pleasure in other peoples’ pain.”

“Not yours,” Vortex said, as the bond showed him slices of memory, snatches of data First Aid had read in classified Autobot files. “And you knew that before. It didn’t stop you saving my life.”

“I thought,” First Aid began, then stopped himself. The bond echoed briefly with the ghost of a hope long-shattered, a hope for calm and rational conversation, a hope that the files had somehow been wrong. First Aid turned onto his front, and rested his head on his arm. “Tell me what you did on Monacus.”

“Work,” Vortex said. “That’s all.”

“That’s not all. You hurt someone, didn’t you?”

Vortex shrugged, making his rotors sway. “Will it make a difference if I tell you the mech was a murderer?”

“No,” First Aid said, and his voice carried a weight of absolute certainty. He tried to ease himself out from beneath Vortex’s arm, and for a moment Vortex considered letting him, but then he decided against it, and slung a leg over to trap First Aid’s knees.

“Why?” Vortex prompted.

“Because it isn’t justice,” First Aid said. “It isn’t right. And you didn't attack him because of his crimes, did you?”

“No,” Vortex admitted. “But I didn’t kill him either.”

“You didn’t,” First Aid said, and the next he must have lifted straight from the bond. “Brawl did. Because he ran away.”

“It’s business,” Vortex said. “And you can’t tell me your side’s never shot a mech instead of draggin’ it through the courts.”

“In war,” First Aid said. “War isn’t _business_.” His lip curled and his frame cooled by a good few degrees. “People make mistakes. No-one’s perfect, but you… You did those things because you enjoyed them.”

“Well yeah. But that's not all I am,” Vortex countered. He was tempted to correct First Aid’s statement that war wasn’t business, but he managed to resist. “I do other scrap too.”

“Really?” Despite the tiger and the other gifts, First Aid appeared to have problems believing that. “Tell me one thing you’ve ever done that wasn’t motivated by greed or lust or… or the urge to kill. Just one thing you did for someone else that was thoughtful and selfless and that wasn’t about getting a reward.”

“Only one?” Vortex said, and he tried desperately to sequester his joy. He could think of a dozen different scenarios without even searching his databanks. And the medic was talking, _really_ talking; it was almost too good to be true.

“Just one,” First Aid repeated, and it sounded like a challenge.

“OK.” Vortex stretched a bit, and finally brought the cover back over his equipment. “I used to go drinking with this femme,” he said. “Starcharger. Had a temper on her like you wouldn’t believe. She had an on-off thing with a mech over in Dead End. Only he tried to play the wrong people and got crushed. Literally, into a cube. Charger was torqued. The mechs who did it didn’t stand a chance, but the thing was, they were high up on Onslaught’s list of people to get all friendly with.” Vortex flexed his rotors, and was very pleased to see the medic’s optics follow them for a moment. “There was all kinds of political scrap back then in the industrial sectors, she was gonna get smelted. So I took the rap for her. Ons still thinks I killed ‘em.”

“Why?” First Aid said. “You and her, you were-”

“Drinking buddies,” Vortex said. “That’s all.”

“That doesn’t help.” First Aid wrenched himself out from under Vortex’s arm and leg, and sat up. Vortex let him, watching the play of light on his armour.

“She had another dozen vorns before an Autobot sniper shot her out of the sky,” Vortex said. “She wouldn’t have had those vorns if anyone else had found out what she’d done.”

First Aid was silent. Conflicted, the bond revealed. Sympathetic despite himself, but unable to reconcile the idea of one murderer protecting another. “Do you have nothing that doesn’t involve killing people?” he said, and it came with a tiny spark of need.

Vortex stroked his foot, feeling for the fluctuations in his energy field. “This one time, I got Swin out of prison,” he began.

“That’s still criminal!” First Aid took a long and shuddering vent.

“On Tyroxia,” Vortex continued. “A bounty hunter had him. An organic. You can’t call that justice.”

“He was a… business contact back then, wasn’t he?” First Aid said. “Of course you’d rescue him.”

“Didn’t have to,” Vortex replied. “There was nothin’ in it for me.” He looked up to find the Autobot watching him with the kind of scrutiny he’d usually expect from Onslaught. “Really,” he said. “Or do you wanna hear about all the other mechs that guy had stashed away. We broke them out too. Me and Brawl.”

“I bet they were a good distraction while you escaped.”

“Didn’t make ‘em any less free.” He leaned his head against First Aid’s hip. “Your creators gave you one hell of a morality chip.”

“There’s no such thing,” First Aid said. His optics flickered and he looked away. “You don’t have anything, do you?”

“Sure I do,” Vortex said. The orn he spent searching for a particular kind of high grade just because Blast Off wanted it; the diamond he’d found for Brawl to give to Swindle to stop them arguing. But that spark of hope was fading, and he wanted to get to the root of it before it vanished completely. “Why do you need this?”

“What?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Vortex said. “You wanna prove I’m evil?” It wasn’t that and he knew it, but he couldn’t quite tell what it _was_.

First Aid leant his head against the wall and sighed. A depth of resignation, bitter and sorrowful, echoed through the bond a moment before he spoke. “When you were dying,” he said, “I thought it was enough that you were alive, sentient… I thought it made you worth saving. I thought the price was fair, that whatever I’d have to give up to keep your spark alight would be worth it. But what you’ve done to me… I can’t believe it any more.” He paused, the resignation morphing to despair. “You… you’re selfish, you’re cruel. You don’t deserve to know this, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” Another click as he re-set his vocaliser, another deep and shuddering vent. “I want proof, something, _anything_ , that shows me you can be better than this. No matter what you do to me, I want to know that saving you really was the right choice.”

It was such an Autobottish concept, the idea of redemption. But in that moment, with the bond fully open and the medic’s spark laid bare before him, the idea was intensely attractive.

 _Connect with me_ ; the words were on Vortex’s lips, his data retrieval collating file after file of things that might just please the medic. But before his vocaliser could gather the charge, First Aid jumped as though stung and a little blue light began to flash on his arm.

The medic’s optics widened in panic. “Oh no.”

* * *

The words stung First Aid’s audials, blaring from the one-way transmitter on his arm.

“First Aid. Come in, First Aid.” Hot Spot’s voice issued clearly from the speaker. His tone was level, but his worry was clear.

First Aid’s fans ground to a halt, and his ventilation ceased. He wanted his team. He wanted rescue and forgiveness and comfort and safety, and to be out of the Combaticon base and away from Vortex and Onslaught and all of them. But Onslaught had told him no comms. There would be consequences. Dead humans, blazing buildings, a horror of purple lasers screaming through the noonday sky.

There was no way for him to warn them, no way to know where in the world Onslaught would strike.

Vortex’s main engine rumbled. The bond showed his disquiet, but it also showed something else. Something surprising. First Aid gaped, lost for words; Vortex was trying to stifle his jealousy.

The rotary sat up and laid a possessive hand on First Aid’s shoulder. “Go on,” he said. “Answer it.”

“What?” First Aid shook his head. “But, he’ll kill them… Onslaught said…”

“You didn’t comm out.” Vortex shrugged. “I get the team thing, remember. Tell him you’re OK.”

First Aid shivered. So that was why Vortex hadn’t clawed out his comm hardware. He felt sick.

“You can do it,” Vortex said. His fingers tapped a quick rhythm on the rubber of First Aid’s tire.

“I can’t,” First Aid whispered, then flinched as Vortex reached across him and pressed the button to enable two-way transmission.

“First Aid?” Hot Spot repeated. “Can you hear me?”

Vortex nodded, but kept his mouth shut.

“I… I’m here,” First Aid said. If only Vortex would leave the room, but the rotary clung tighter, watching the lights flash on his arm.

“Thank Primus!” Hot Spot’s sigh was audible. “Where have you been? Are you all right? I’ve been calling for days, why didn’t you answer?”

“Equipment was broken,” First Aid said. “I’m sorry.”

“Broken?” There was a moment of silence, and First Aid thought he could hear Streetwise’s engine stutter in the background. “How did it get broken?” Hot Spot said. “Aid, are you all right?”

Vortex nodded again, more slowly this time.

“Yes,” First Aid said. “Yes, I’m…”

“You don’t sound all right,” Hot Spot said. “Patch me your coordinates and Blades can come get you.”

The surge of jealousy from Vortex was overwhelming. He tightened his grip on First Aid’s tire and slid his other hand over First Aid’s chest, making his spark pulse and bringing his interface hardware abruptly online.

“Is there anyone with you?” Hot Spot asked, probably in response to First Aid’s failure to send the coordinates.

Vortex shook his head.

“No,” First Aid said. “I’m by myself. I just…” _I need you,_ he thought. _Come get me, please for the love of Cybertron come and get me._

“You need time,” Hot Spot said. He sighed again, the worry fading in the face of resignation. “I understand. It’s just, well, your note got us a little concerned. It isn’t like you to book yourself leave without talking it through with me or with Ratchet. We just needed to know that you’re safe.”

“Not just that,” Streetwise said. His voice buzzed, and First Aid could imagine him leaning over Hot Spot’s shoulder in front of the big monitor back at HQ. “If Prime needs Defensor, will you come?”

“Yes,” First Aid said, before Vortex’s displeasure could fully register.

“Please, Streetwise,” Hot Spot said. “Aid, I know you’ve had a rough ride, and I don’t want to put you under any pressure, but I do hope this won’t keep you away too long.”

First Aid cringed, but Vortex leaned close to his audial and whispered, so low the mic on his comm would never pick it up, “You’re right, I need some time.”

“You’re right,” First Aid said, hating every syllable. “I need some time.” But the alternative was worse. There was little Onslaught and Vortex could do to him that they hadn’t already done. The humans, however, were another matter.

“I’ll comm you when I’m ready,” Vortex prompted, and as First Aid repeated it he sank further in on himself, curling around his spark and Vortex’s hand on his chest, hating the new pit of grief and shame and guilt that deepened with each word.

“All right,” Hot Spot responded. “But I do expect a ping every eight joors. I understand you need some space, but you’ll understand that we can’t just break contact.”

“I do,” First Aid said. When the comm clicked off, Vortex’s jealousy subsided but his grip tightened.

“You did good,” he said.

First Aid stared at his feet. “Let me go home.”

“You don’t mean that,” Vortex told him. “You’re just homesick cause I let you talk to big ‘n’ blue.” His closeness was overbearing, his armour too hot and his vents far too active. First Aid seized hold of the irritation and tried to focus it through the bond, to show Vortex his touch just wasn’t wanted.

“Then leave me alone,” he said, and to his surprise Vortex backed off.

The rotary stood and stretched. “Go for a walk,” he said. “Explore the base. Tell yourself you’re doing it for espionage or something, I don’t give a scrap. Just get a feel for the place, go see your tiger.” He retreated as far as the door, then turned back and grinned. “I’ve got a surprise for you later, it’ll be just what you need.”


	7. Chapter 7

First Aid didn’t want to explore Combaticon HQ. It was large and echoing and grim, and he had no idea where Onslaught was. He could be outside the room, or around the next corner, listening and waiting, ready to punish Aid for following Vortex’s directions.

But explore he did. Vortex’s quip about espionage had hit home. If he could learn about this place, then he would have salvaged something from his captivity.

He shuddered and rubbed his arms. Away from Vortex and the compelling distraction of the spark bond, he felt more a prisoner than ever.

And Combaticon HQ made a truly disorientating prison. Immense and rambling, rooms led from rooms in a circuit that was really a spiral, and within half a breem First Aid no longer knew how far he was from the crater floor.

He walked in a pool of moving light. Sensors in the ceiling switched the fluorescents on ahead of him and turned off those behind. Cameras followed him along windowless hallways and up small flights of stairs.

He saw repair bots and cleaning drones, and spider-like maintenance units checking welds and testing seams.

What he didn’t see were Combaticons.

After a while, he began to hope that he could get lost in the labyrinth, that the cameras weren’t actually recording, and that he would come upon a room or a corner or a closet where Vortex wouldn’t be able to find him.

But Vortex would always be able to find him. Just as he – if he focused, if he wanted to – would always be able to find Vortex.

Despite his better judgement, he made the attempt.

Coordinates blinked into existence on his HUD, followed by a flash of insight as immersive and complete as if he and Vortex had been connected and their databanks laid bare. The dying sun blazed in the corner of his optics, and the desert sand was a blur below. He flew in alt mode, the air hot on his rotors, but the desert was cooling by the breem and the radiating heat caused an intriguing pattern of updrafts.

First Aid quit the subroutine. The insight left him dizzy. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to jiggle rotor blades he didn’t possess, and shuttered his optics against a sun he couldn’t see.

The illusion took a while to pass, and when it did First Aid realised that what he’d taken for an auditory hallucination – the thwop of turning rotorblades – was in fact the echo of approaching footfalls.

“I wannit!” The voice rang through the metal hallway. “C’mon, Swin, don’t be a cog head!”

Brawl, without a shadow of a doubt. First Aid stepped cautiously around the nearest corner, hoping the slight noise of his feet would be inaudible to Brawl and Swindle under their own heavy clomping.

It was a dead end.

“Y’ain’ havin’ it!” Swindle declared, and it wasn’t the smooth, confident statement of the con artist, but the slur of a highly inebriated mech.

First Aid focused on his vents, his fans, the motors in his arms, everything that could make the kind of noise that would signal his presence to the other two. But it was no good, no matter the noises he didn’t make, the lights were still on above him, and he had no idea how to turn them off.

“Y’ain’t gonna give it me?” Brawl said. He didn’t sound sober either.

“Nuh-huh!” Swindle replied, and just the sound of his voice sent an unpleasant ripple through First Aid’s spark.

“Yeah y’are.”

First Aid wasn’t expecting the bang, nor the reverberation that seemed to shake the walls and floor alike. And he certainly wasn’t expecting Swindle’s giddy laughter, or the screeching grind of metal against metal as Brawl did… something, making Swindle laugh all the harder.

He crouched, ready to spring at them if they should turn the corner. He could unbalance them, push past, and run. He had the element of surprise, and the advantage of sobriety.

But they didn’t approach. By the sound of it, they didn’t get any further than a loud, tussling heap on the corridor floor.

It was almost a relief.

As long as he didn’t think about what would happen if they noticed he was there.

First Aid cleaved to the wall, conserving his energy. If only they’d get up and go back the way they’d come.

“What are you doing here?”

First Aid almost leapt out of his armour.

“It's a simple question,” Blast Off said. He appeared in the entrance to the alcove, large enough that he blocked almost the whole of the space.

“Hey Blastie!” Brawl yelled. “Issat a squishy! Swin, your squishies are outta control again.”

“Frag! Don’t stand on it!” Swindle called.

“It’s not a squishy,” Blast Off said. “Medic, come with me.”

“Medic? Oh slag yeah!” There was a screech and a scuffle and Brawl’s head appeared in the lee of Blast Off’s arm. “You don’t wanna go with him.” Brawl grinned. “You wanna come with us!”

First Aid shook his head. No, he really didn’t.

“You’re intoxicated,” Blast Off huffed.

“Like frag I am,” Brawl snapped. He lurched to the side as Swindle tried to push past him.

“Hey there!” Swindle said, his grin widening as his optics flickered in an obvious attempt to refocus. There was a datapad in his hand, probably the thing Brawl had wanted. He draped himself over Brawl’s shoulder, and gave First Aid a suggestive leer. “I got some grade. You’re thirsty, right? Issa good price!”

“We ain’t gonna charge him,” Brawl said. “You think he’s got cash?”

“Price ain’t cash.” Swindle swayed, his grin downgrading into the kind of self-satisfied smirk First Aid would be happy never to see again.

He tried to keep calm, to assess the situation like Jazz and Blaster had taught him. He took in each mech’s position and posture, their likely centre of gravity. He calculated the odds of getting past them with various different strategies. It was a distraction technique as much as anything; keeping his mind from the probable outcomes, skirting the edge of the pit of panic without actually falling in.

“Follow me,” Blast Off said. He turned to go, neatly avoiding touching either Swindle or Brawl.

First Aid remained rooted to the spot.

“Ha!” Brawl punched the air. “See, he wants to come with us!”

First Aid shook his head, but he kept his vocaliser resolutely offline. He’d pleaded with Vortex, and with Onslaught, and it had done him no good. He didn’t want to plead with Swindle or Brawl. Or with Blast Off, who was glaring at him and impatiently drumming his fingers on his thigh.

He should comm Vortex.

The thought came directly from the bond, sliding wormlike into his processors and coiling there. It was humiliating. But what choice did he have? Go with Blast Off, who hadn’t prevented him from being raped, and who had in all probability watched, perhaps even enjoyed a vicarious overload via the gestalt bond. Or he could go with Brawl and Swindle, and it was obvious where that would get him.

“You’re all morons,” Blast Off said, and lunged. First Aid flinched, but the shuttle was quick. He seized First Aid by the arm, and dragged him out of the alcove. “Unless you’d rather stay with them?”

First Aid shook his head. Blast Off didn’t want to be holding him, it was obvious. His energy field crawled with disgust, and irritation registered in the harsh gusts of his vents.

“Nice aft!” Brawl yelled, but they were already far enough away that his voice was muffled, and whatever Swindle said after couldn’t be made out at all.

“Did you speak to Vortex?” Blast Off said. He released First Aid’s arm, and gave him a solid shove in the centre of his back.

First Aid stumbled and struggled to right himself, but he was obviously too slow because Blast Off saw fit to give him another shove.

“Hurry up,” he snapped. “And I expect an answer. Do you think I ask purely for the enjoyment of listening to my own voice?”

“Sorry,” First Aid said, and cringed. Another heavy push, and he landed on his knees. The impact jarred, but Blast Off’s condescending growl was worse. “Stop it!” First Aid cried. He took a deep vent, and met Blast Off’s glare. “Let me get up.”

“If you insist,” Blast Off said. “Why are you so small? It isn’t normal, you know. A medic should be larger.”

“I’m sure my creators had their reasons,” First Aid said. The shuttle was so condescending, it was hard not to snipe in response. He found his feet and his balance, and stalked off along the corridor in the direction he assumed Blast Off wanted him to go.

It was a good few astroseconds before he realised that he was no longer afraid.

It came from the bond, just like the thought to comm Vortex. But that thought had dispersed, replaced by a weak and nebulous instinct that to be in the shuttleformer’s company was better than being out of it. First Aid tried to summon back the fear. Blast Off was immense, powerful, impatient; but try as he might, First Aid could not register him as an immediate threat.

“This way,” Blast Off said, as though First Aid should already have known.

They passed over a bridge between buildings, and First Aid tried to get his bearings. The tiger sheds were below them, the crater floor stretching out to their left. The sun was setting, and the first stars glimmered through a high haze of cloud.

Two storeys down in the next building, First Aid finally saw a room he recognised. It was Vortex’s room, or at least the room Vortex had chosen to bring him to that first night. The cloth-covered chains were coiled by the bunk, and a few empty energon cubes clustered on a shelf.

“Sit,” Blast Off instructed. He took up position in a chair beneath the window, his face sinking into shadow and his optics dimmed.

Finally, First Aid managed to claw back a remnant of the fear. “What are you-”

“We’re waiting for Vortex,” Blast Off interrupted. “And when he arrives, you are going to ask him the question you should have asked him earlier. Now _sit down_.”

First Aid perched on the corner of the bunk. This room was the last thing he needed. The view from the window, the firm, pliant plastic of the berth, even the smell of the place; files opened against his will, memories unfolded. His energy field flared and he hated himself for it.

“Good,” Blast Off said. “Now, while we wait, there’s the matter of your cultural instruction.” He held up a hand as though for silence. “These,” he continued, pulling a datapad and a handful of chips from a compartment, “will prove indispensable.” He leaned forward and laid them out on a table.

“What are they?” First Aid said, and immediately regretted it.

“Do I have to tell you everything?” Blast Off gestured at the chips. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

* * *

Two joors later and Vortex still hadn’t come back. The urge to search for him was intense, prompting an anxious restlessness. To fight it, First Aid threw himself into reading. Blast off seemed to approve. The shuttleformer dug out a datapad of his own, put his feet on the table, and – aside from a quick glance every few breems – paid First Aid no attention whatsoever.

The more First Aid read, the less he thought about using the bond to find Vortex. And the less he thought about the bond, the more he could focus on things that were, well, interesting. Fascinating, really. A history of Cybertron, a summary of the Primes before Sentinel; a catalogue of known worlds and their inhabitants; star charts and tour guides and a database of long-dead composers with lists of their works extant and lost.

Each chip opened a new vista of knowledge, and each vista was full of unexpected details. Myths and legends, tales of Transorganics and Quintessons, of the vast Cybertronian empire at the beginning of the Golden Age, and the creation of the first ever combiner team.

First Aid crossed his legs and hunched over the datapad. The information mattered. It was escape, it was good for him. What he shouldn’t think about was why Blast Off had given it to him, and what that said about the team’s intentions.

It was a further joor before Vortex returned. He flung himself on the bunk behind First Aid, his mask back and a wide grin on his face. “Miss me?” he said.

“Only when it’s too much effort to aim,” Blast Off commented. “What took you so long?”

“Blitzwing.” Vortex shrugged. “He was in repairs and Hook wouldn’t let me in.”

First Aid tried to keep his focus. Immersed in the data, he was OK. Alone with Blast Off and his casual indifference, he was – oddly, terrifyingly – safe. Vortex changed everything.

“What you lookin’ at?” Vortex knelt up behind him and peered over his shoulder. A hand snaked around to fondle First Aid’s waist.

“That can wait,” Blast Off said. “Your bond mate has a question for you.”

“Oh?” Vortex reached for the datapad, and First Aid tucked it under his knee. “But I’ve got him something. You want your present?” he said, his lips dangerously close to First Aid’s audial.

“That can also wait,” Blast Off snarled. “This is important. He’s already wasted a day because Onslaught is incapable of putting together clear instructions.”

“What’s it with you and Ons lately?” Vortex’s engine revved as he shuffled around and pulled First Aid onto his lap. With no-one to catch it, the datapad slid down onto the floor. “You can get it later,” he whispered. “Lemme hold you.”

“For Primus’ sake!” Blast Off’s cannons hummed, and his engine growled.

First Aid tried to wriggle away. This wasn’t right. Vortex could hold him in private, could smash through his boundaries as though they were nothing when the two of them were alone. But not in public. To do so in front of Blast Off just compounded his humiliation.

It didn’t help that the proximity announcement had begun to flash and the charge was steadily rising.

“Speak,” Blast Off said, as the shining black cylinder of his left cannon barrel swivelled against his foot to aim straight at Vortex. “Or I shall lose my patience.”

 _Shoot him,_ First Aid thought. _Please, just shoot him._ It was unworthy and terrible, and both the bond and his core programming rebelled, prompting a moment of sickening dread which sliced through the growing arousal.

“The programming,” First Aid blurted. “There were printouts and datasheets. Code from all of you, readouts from Bruticus. Ons… y-your commander wanted me to look through them, for errors or malfunctions… Integrated code that shouldn’t be there!” He squirmed anew, his hands tight over Vortex’s to stop them moving, but Vortex had already frozen.

“Yeah,” he said. A flash of panic in his energy field, a hint of dread through the bond. “That.”

“Exactly,” Blast Off said. “That.” He touched his helm, his optics fading. “Tell him what he’s looking for, or he’ll never find it.”

Vortex took a deep vent. His grip tightened, and this time it had nothing to do with keeping First Aid where he wanted him. “You tell him.”

“No,” Blast Off replied, and the other cannon barrel began to move. It was as though the temperature dropped by a good five degrees. “Unlike you, I fail to appreciate the finer points of masochism. You will tell him, or he’ll be tending you in medbay for a vorn.”

“Don’t!” First Aid said, and he wasn’t sure whether he was speaking from the spark or from his higher principles. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Then make him tell you,” Blast Off said. “You bonded to him, you should be able to control him.”

That wasn’t how it worked, and surely Blast Off should have known that, but Vortex was already gearing up to speak. His vocaliser crackled and a shiver ran through his rotors. He rested his chin on First Aid’s shoulder.

“Megatron did it,” he said, and First Aid shuddered as a chill invaded his spark. “It was meant to keep us down, stop us taking over. Stops us leaving.” Vortex tensed; the chill deepened, so cold that First Aid was afraid for a moment that it might snuff his spark. His sensor net began to glitch, a terrifying wave of numbness spreading out from his core to darken his entire frame.

It was like a blackout, like someone had severed the controls to his body. His vision went, his hearing blurred.

“Loyalty programming.” Vortex’s voice grated. “Integrated, can’t separate it. Need it out.”

His voice went, and the darkness rose. And with it came the conviction that the numb blackness was everything there ever was and everything there ever would be. No death, no respite, no light of life or hope for oblivion, just conscious, insensate stasis.

For ever.

First Aid came around to the heat of Vortex’s chest against his back, the pressure of the rotary’s arms around his waist. He was venting hard, they both were, their cables trembling, making their armour shake.

“Set us free,” Vortex whispered, and for one horrifying moment the darkness rushed back in. But then it was gone, and First Aid was left with the knowledge that this was Vortex’s punishment for his disloyalty.

“You felt it too?” Blast Off said with just a hint of curiosity. “And now you know what the Detention Centre was like. I’m sure that will help increase your capacity for compassion.” It wasn’t clear whether or not he was being sarcastic, but First Aid wanted to be sick.

“He gets the heart of a star,” Vortex said quietly. “I get… that place. The others… frag knows.”

“We can talk about it,” Blast Off said. “Just not in the context of getting rid of it.” His optics flickered again, and he shook his head. “But you can. Get it out of us.”

First Aid shook his head. “I’m not a spark engineer,” he said. “I don’t know…”

“Neither is Megatron,” Blast Off responded. “This isn’t spark deep.” He clutched his head again, and hissed like steam escaping a boiler. “It’s an adaptation of the old slavery code used in the Kaon Pits.” His vents came harder, and First Aid expected a resurgence of Vortex’s flashback to the Detention Centre, but it didn’t happen. "None of us have the slave protocols. We weren't built with that… potential, our castes never were. He couldn't bond us to him. So he customised the code."

“You can repair code,” Vortex prompted. It was obvious how carefully he considered his words, and how much he did not want to revisit the Detention Centre, even in a hallucination.

“Yes,” First Aid said. “But-”

Blast Off’s denta squealed. “ _Try_.”

* * *

Vortex was cold. His temp readouts were lying. His spark was ice, his sensors submerged in liquid nitrogen. He clung to his bond mate and tried to will the medic’s warmth to seep through into his own frame. Frag Megatron, frag the programming, frag Shockwave and the Detention Centre and the whole pit-spawned lot of them. He’d never deserved to be put away, and he didn’t deserve this either.

His bonded, on the other hand, he deserved. And Blast Off, his favourite team mate, lying back in the chair with an arm over his face. Probably shielding his optics from a sun that didn’t exist.

He deserved Blast Off too.

“Ugh,” Blast Off groaned. “Now he knows. Didn’t you have a trinket or somesuch? I’m sure you wasted your ration flying off to the Nemesis for a reason…”

“Wasn’t a waste,” Vortex said, and the warmth began to seep back in. He brushed his lips against the side of the medic’s helm; scrap, he felt good. “Got you this,” he said, pulling a datachip from his arm and pressing it into First Aid’s palm.

The Autobot seemed a little out of sorts. He’d gone quiet – quieter than usual – and seemed confused. “What is it?” he said, and the softness of his voice made Vortex want to roll him over and make his engine roar.

“Load of scrap from way back,” Vortex said. “Copied it from Blitzwing. He’s into all that. You got documentaries and vids and stuff. A few concerts, and that sound-and-light thing they had over Crystal City when it opened.”

“I remember that,” Blast Off commented, and it sounded to Vortex like an opportunity.

“You could show him?” he suggested. The medic fidgeted, but Vortex made his energy field flicker over the Autobot’s seams, and held him still.

Blast Off snorted. “You’re so subtle,” he said. “He can watch the vid.”

“That’s no substitute,” Vortex said. “C’mon. Let’s show him Cybertron. You’d like that, right?” He turned First Aid around, and looked him straight in the optics. “See Crystal City like you were really there.” He smiled, and whispered, “No fraggin’ him, not if you don’t want to. Just let us show you.”

“I haven’t said yes,” Blast Off huffed.

“Yet,” Vortex reminded him. He slid out from under the medic, depositing him carefully on the bunk, and went over to the shuttle. “We need it after all that programming scrap. You know it’ll be good.”

“You just want to get laid.” Blast Off always did a good job hiding his amusement, but with Vortex’s knee just next to his raised feet, it was clear in his energy field.

“That too,” Vortex said. “You wanna get on the bunk?”

“You’re full of yourself.” Blast Off crossed his arms. “What makes you think I won’t just leave?”

“Because I’d rather be full of you, and you like that.”

“Aft,” Blast Off said, and kicked Vortex’s legs out from under him. The disorientation was wonderful after the induced horror of his punishment. As was the handling. Blast Off knew what he wanted, it was one of the enticing things about him. He arranged Vortex just so, straddling his hips, hands on the chair arms, and not under any circumstances on Blast Off’s armour. Well, not yet.

The heat of him was glorious.

And the thrill of shock from his Autobot, the weight of his gaze. Vortex beckoned First Aid over, and was pleasantly surprised when the medic obeyed. There was, however, no surprise that he chose to sit on the edge of the bunk, hands folded nervously in his lap and his head down. So attractive, and so polite. So small and perfect, and Vortex couldn’t help the needy fluctuations of his spark.

Blast Off shuffled further down the chair, his every movement sending a thrill through Vortex’s more intimate hardware. Just as it should be with his team. As it should have been with Swindle if the selfish little fragger hadn’t gone and sold them for spare parts.

“Open,” Blast Off instructed, and tapped Vortex on the side. “Medic,” he added, slightly less abruptly. “Get a chair and come closer, I won’t have my cables touching the floor.”

Vortex waited another three astroseconds for Blast Off’s frustration to show, then sprung the catch on his valve cover and his panel cover at once.

It was the shuttle’s task, as the largest and technically the highest status of the three, to decide whose connector went where. And it was far from surprising that although he passed one of his own cables to First Aid, he gestured for the medic to connect to Vortex, and would only accept a cable from his team mate.

It was a hangover from the towers, the attitude that one could give to anyone, but would only receive from a select minority. It was one of a few small reminders that Blast Off was a product of the alpha caste.

Vortex liked those reminders. As a military mech accepted by an alpha, it always carried a pleasing sense of gratification, and a hint of nostalgia for the vorns where that would have been a severe breach of social protocol.

The connection established, his fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. That first rush of energy, that initial exchange of data, it was always a thrill. His spark surged, and a hot elation spread from his chest outwards as the spark bond and the gestalt bond both registered their approval.

First Aid gave a nervous little cough. He fidgeted on his new chair, just out of Vortex’s reach, but close enough that Vortex could easily watch him.

Then Blast Off took command of the interface, and Vortex’s attention fragmented.

He felt his bondmate squirm to disperse some of the charge, felt Blast Off’s hardware heat beneath his exposed valve. He saw the skies of Cybertron with glass-sharp clarity. The vapour trails of airframes, the gleam of satellites; the glow of the city reflecting on the few wisps of cloud.

Noise bubbled; mechs and music and drones and traffic all smelted together until one was very hard to distinguish from another.

He saw Crystal City on its opening night, a vision he’d only ever seen before on vids and in holo-view. They’d been nothing compared with the shuttle’s carefully guarded memories. To his right, First Aid gasped, and it wasn’t an exhalation of fear, but one of wonder, his awe showing through the bond louder even than the anxiety and the knotted threads of lust and revulsion.

Vortex was pleased; his bond mate was beginning to understand.

Blast Off showed them vistas of unequalled beauty. Crystal City from the sky, the approach above the road to Altihex; the domes of Iacon gleaming in the distance. And as he did so, he allowed Vortex to bring his hands into play, to touch the edges of his arm-mounted shields, and caress the cover of his far less conventional equipment.

Then Crystal City appeared in close-up, and Vortex glanced over to find that First Aid had shuttered his optics, and while he wasn’t exactly smiling, he certainly wasn’t frowning any more either.

Blast Off’s engine rumbled, his vents coming deeper now, bailing the heat from his core. His interface cover drew back, and Vortex’s valve ached in anticipation. Such wonderful hardware, crafted by Hook to perfectly replicate the shuttle’s pre-war attributes. Vortex squirmed at the first penetration; the tentacles weren’t exactly slender, but one was never enough.

As a second inched into his valve, Vortex caught the medic looking. He grinned in response, and First Aid turned away, the bond awash with embarrassment.

“Focus,” Blast Off demanded, and his voice was drowned in static. He clutched Vortex’s hips, holding him still as a third tentacle eased him open, and the memory again threatened to immerse him.

Dividing his attention was hard. Doing so while the tip of a tentacle slowly circled his ceiling node – while the medic whimpered quietly beside them in a state of confused and helpless arousal, and while the sights and sounds and smells of a Cybertron long-gone overtook his senses – it was impossible.

It was only by sheer force of will that he kept his overload from spilling through the bond and the connection.

* * *

First Aid was confused. Disgust warred with excitement, pleasure with anxiety. The kind of mods Blast Off had – he’d only seen them before in manuals. Tentacles twined Vortex’s thighs, slithered in and out of his valve, encircled his spike and reached for his wrists. It was at once intriguing and highly disconcerting.

He’d stopped wondering where his fear had gone. Thinking was hard enough; thinking about anything specific for more than a few astroseconds was impossible.

Each new flood of data brought a new memory and a new and dizzying dreamscape. He clung to the chair, afraid to let go as Vortex climaxed loudly and his vision cut out altogether.

He could still hear Vortex and Blast Off, and feel them along the connection, but all he could see was Cybertron.

Crystal City was a spectacle, all gleaming curves and prismatic facets. First Aid had never seen somewhere so busy, nor so large. It was impressive on a scale that made him – even from Blast Off’s remembered perspective – feel small as the tiniest of Earth’s insects.

He lost track of time. Snatches of conversation hit his audial, fragments of melody. He swayed in the chair, and remained upright only because Blast Off held him. A tentacle twined around his waist, and Vortex issued an invitation via the bond that made his entire frame light up.

He knew he didn’t want to. Not really. He knew he wasn’t in his right mind. Blast Off had done something to him, made him woozy, tired, suggestive. Or it was the bond, enhancing his responses, making him want Blast Off because Vortex wanted him, because Vortex wanted them both.

The connection thrummed with it, and his spark surged in sympathy. The cable around his waist pulled him upright, and Vortex tugged him close and kissed him deeply while the memories of Crystal City played out around him, and the music and the geodes and the coloured lights all swam in front of his optics.

“Closer,” Vortex murmured, and the floor vanished from beneath First Aid’s feet. An ankle tire bounced against the side of the chair, and Vortex’s hands slid up the inside of his legs, drawing his thighs apart. “Wrap your legs around me,” Vortex said, but the room was the wrong way up, and the vision of Cybertron meshed with the distant blank grey of the ceiling.

Beneath him, Blast Off’s engines rumbled. Dark hands gripped his waist while Vortex bent to kiss his spike cover.

 _Open up_. First Aid couldn’t tell if the instruction had come from the bond or the connection or an audible sound, but his catches released and his covers slid back with infuriating slowness. He writhed; he was empty, hot, a familiar numb dread seething under everything, but utterly failing to stop him from arching his back and bucking his hips.

Blast Off supported him, and Vortex kissed a line up his chest to the armour covering his spark. He grabbed First Aid’s hips and pulled him just a little closer, and scrap but the touch of the rotary’s spike on his rim made him ache fit to scream.

When Vortex entered him, he came close to overloading then and there. But something drained the charge – some property of the interface – and something new brushed against his own spike. It was warm and metallic and made him tingle with row after row of charged and sparking nodes. It coiled around his length, lubricant-slick while another slid around the rim of his full valve, making his sensors glow as Vortex claimed him with a slow, controlled rhythm.

He whined, stretching, reaching for Vortex’s arm, trying to grab his tail rotors. Then another arm looped around his chest, keeping him still while Vortex pulled most of the way out and the tip of one of those smooth prehensile tentacles pushed inside him.

The dream of Cybertron shattered, and First Aid moaned. He tried to lift his hips, to urge Vortex deeper. It was no use; they held him still as the first tentacle was joined by another, stretching him, stroking him, exploring his ridges and folds and the glowing hot nodes.

Vortex groaned, and moved his spike. A shallow thrust, that was all, but the effect was intense. First Aid whined, his hands tight around Blast Off’s fingers, his valve fighting to contract. He was so full; not only that, but instead of the consistent slide of a spike, the tentacles moved at counterpoint. It was delicious. Delicious and terrible, and if he could just lose himself in the sensation then everything would be all right.

Not for long, he knew, but for long enough.

The arrhythmic stimulation continued, drawing charge from his nodes, making the lubricant run and his circuits heat. Blast Off’s engine roared, and Vortex leaned forward, covering First Aid’s mouth with his own, resting their chests together.

Their sparks pounded, the fluctuations as strong and uneven as the pressure in their valves. The bond held them together, synchronising every last system until the only boundary First Aid could perceive was the one between the two of them and Blast Off. But even that was indistinct, blurred by the Combaticon gestalt bond.

The climax built, and he tensed against it. _Not yet, oh Primus please not yet_ , but Vortex was ready, Vortex welcomed it, and there was no way he could resist. It consumed him, the pleasure looping from one to the other via the connection and the bonds. Beneath them, Blast off swore, his energy field searing and his engines revving hard enough to shake First Aid to his bolts.

Then it all released, and Vortex slumped, his lips against the side of First Aid’s neck. “Oh frag, that was good.”

First Aid shuttered his optics. He didn’t want to think, just to feel, to follow the lingering warmth of their shared overload until it petered out completely. And after that, he wanted to recharge. If he wasn’t conscious, he couldn’t be ashamed.

The room lurched as Blast Off moved them up from his interface hardware, the tentacles sliding free. Then he sighed, and batted Vortex’s rotors to make them spin. “Show him Vos.”

* * *

It was still night when Vortex woke him up, the blue of a pre-dawn sky just visible through the window. Blast Off had finally left, after Vos and Altihex and Kaon, with Vortex’s energy levels critically low and First Aid so tired he could barely move.

They’d made it to the bunk because Blast Off had dumped them there before staggering out. And now Vortex was interrupting his defrag cycle just to nudge him on the shoulder.

“Huh?” First Aid curled up. His valve was sore. _Everything_ was sore. Not damaged at all, just worn and worked and thoroughly used. He wanted to purge. How could he have let them, after what Onslaught had done? But it was the bond. It was all the fault of the bond.

“You gotta send your ping thing,” Vortex said. “Every eight joors.”

The ping had already been sent, yet another lie in a long list of lies. Exhausted as First Aid was, it was so easy to blame himself. But even easier was to get angry with Vortex. “It’s automatic,” he snapped. “Let me recharge.”

Vortex yawned and rolled over. “Yeah, you do that.” He yawned again, and a rotor came to rest on First Aid’s hip. “You gotta be sharp tomorrow. Gotta work out all that scrap, do your medic thing.”

First Aid cringed. That was the last thing he wanted to do.


	8. Chapter 8

By morning, Vortex was in no position to move. Onslaught’s hand around his rotor hub wasn’t going to change anything.

Beside him, First Aid was still in recharge. Worn out, by the feel of him; thoroughly satisfied and utterly slagged. With any luck he’d remain unconscious until Onslaught had gone.

“Sir,” Vortex sighed, letting Onslaught take his weight.

“Progress?” Onslaught snapped. “And what did you do to that chair?”

“Ask the shuttle.” Vortex yawned. “Fragged if I know, he was on the bottom.” He shook his rotors. “Medic’s on it.”

Onslaught glared at First Aid; the Autobot didn’t wake. “You have two breems to make that statement truth.”

* * *

First Aid got through the morning on auto-pilot. Vortex was obviously too tired to interface, and when they got to medbay, he was too tired to do anything but sprawl over one of the repair bunks and watch while First Aid worked.

It was second nature for First Aid to place a small line of canisters within hand’s reach – all the fluids the rotary needed to replenish – but aside from wrapping his fingers around the energon cube, Vortex made no move to take any of them on.

The bond protested, and so did his core programming, but First Aid forced himself not to care. He had bigger problems; Onslaught’s threats, the loyalty programming, making sense of the code.

He spread out the datasheets, and began to analyse the glyphs in light of the new information.

An alarm blared, and First Aid flinched.

“Ugh.” Vortex groaned. “What the frag?” He hit his comms, and a hologram of Onslaught sprung up.

“Aerialbot flyover,” Onslaught snapped. “Their leader and one of the jets. Keep the medic indoors.”

It was as though someone had filled First Aid’s vents with liquid nitrogen. A glimmer of hope kindled, but it was cold, distant, crowded out by the fear and panic and anger. Vortex’s responses, and his own, all mingled together, making him dizzy.

“Understood, sir,” Vortex said.

First Aid glanced up at the high strip windows, the narrow slice of sky. If he made a run for the door… He might reach it, with Vortex low on everything. But would he make it outside? And then what? Silverbolt would spot him, and Fireflight or Air Raid or whoever was with him would sweep into a dive and carry him to safety.

It wouldn’t work.

Onslaught would catch him. There’d be hell to pay.

“See,” Vortex said. He heaved himself from the bunk and threw back the cube of energon, then the coolant beside it. “This is why you need some distraction.” He went over to the table and picked up a datasheet. “Don’t know how you can read this scrap.”

First Aid snatched the sheet back and laid it down again. “Hadn’t you better be standing by the door,” he said. “In case I try to escape?”

“You ain’t gona do that,” Vortex said. He leaned over the readouts, the datasheets slipping and crinkling beneath his hands. “You’ve got far better scrap to do.”

“Don't be vulgar.” First Aid backed away, but Vortex pursued. “You’re going to damage your joints,” he said. “Energon isn’t enough.”

“Then top me up,” Vortex replied.

First Aid’s back hit the spare parts rack, and the whole thing clattered and swayed. “It’s… um…” It wasn’t fair how the spark bond filled him with the most inappropriate of urges, but didn’t also gain control over his limbs and force him to go with them. “The containers are over there?” he managed, but Vortex was already on his knees and teasing the cover from First Aid’s spike.

Of course he was pressurised. How could he fail to be with the bond leading him on? He gripped Vortex’s head, and tried not to hear the small sounds that showed how much Vortex’s joints required oiling and how the energon and coolant hadn’t yet filtered through to all the places they were needed.

But he didn’t try to hide from the feel of Vortex’s mouth around him, the hot slick embrace of his glossa sliding over the nodes.

“Love the taste of you,” Vortex murmured, and First Aid tore his optics from the rotary’s helm and the light bounce of his blades. Outside the windows, the sky was the same fathomless blue. A low hum could have been machinery within Combaticon HQ, but it could equally have been the distant whine of a jet engine.

First Aid’s vents hitched, and his own engine stalled. There was no room for homesickness with his spike so hotly enveloped. No space for grief or longing or regret. His spark blazed, the bond warming him from the core out, just as the flick of Vortex’s glossa and the pressure of his lips heated First Aid’s circuits.

Dimly, he thought it must be a safety protocol, a measure to ensure that a bonded mech would always be able to reassure his mate. But the observation was lost in the gathering charge, and First Aid whined as his circuits soared and his spike discharged into Vortex’s mouth.

But Vortex wasn’t done. He swallowed and licked all along the shaft before sucking gently on the tip. “Will you let me frag your valve?” he said.

“After last night?” First Aid tried to summon the loathing, the feeling of utter wrongness, but as it had been with Blast Off the previous evening, it just wasn’t there. Only the grief and the homesickness returned, as the overload faded and his frame regained its equilibrium.

“You’re too sore?” Vortex said, as though that was the only reason he could possibly have for refusing. “We can wait.” He stood, a wicked gleam in his optics and only the faintest trace of anxiety showing through the bond. “What’re you looking out the window for? Nothing to see out there.”

First Aid rebooted his optics. “No reason,” he lied, and it was as though the bond spoke through him.

Vortex needed reassurance. It was weird and horrible and alien. Worse, it slotted in with the knowledge that Vortex also needed his fluids topping up and a few minor repairs. The urge to help him was maddening, and First Aid was left with the nasty feeling that the spark bond and his core programming were – again – in accord.

It wasn’t right.

“You’re not ready to see your team yet,” Vortex said. “And I’m not letting that bunch of flying freaks anywhere near you.”

“They’re not freaks,” First Aid said. He gripped the edge of the shelf at his back, and tried to think. But his mind simply circled around how wrong it would be to let Vortex go on as he was. “Get on the bunk.”

“You gonna get on top of me?” Vortex said, his finger straying briefly to First Aid’s valve cover before he wandered back to the repair berth and threw himself on it.

“No,” First Aid said, and it was so much easier when they weren’t touching. He dismissed the input from his valve as best he could and went over to the containers. “Open your auxiliary intakes, please.”

“Kinky,” Vortex responded, but at least he seemed to be joking. The panel on his hip slid aside and he lay back, watching as First Aid poured in what was needed. “That feels good. Can we connect?”

First Aid paused, holding himself still long enough for a calming vent, and to ride out the thrill of current and the little cascade of sparks from his hidden connector. “Why bother asking?” he said quietly.

“Cause you like being asked,” Vortex replied. “And I wanna see you smile again, like you did when we showed you Vos.”

“I smiled?” First Aid screwed the lid back on the bottle of internal joint lubricant, focusing on the toughness of the plastic; he could do without those memories right now.

“Yeah. And you wanna know what else you did?” Vortex slapped the cover back over his auxiliary intakes, and tugged First Aid closer.

“No. Stop that, please. You need repairing.”

“I need you more,” Vortex replied, but he let First Aid wriggle free, and he allowed his armour to be opened, his circuits exposed. “You got a way with your hands. You could get me off just by touching. Let’s hook up. You can stroke my rotors a while and then see how you feel about having your valve filled.”

“Head forward,” First Aid said, and his voice was less than stable. He could lose himself in the sex – and how easy that would be, how simple just to climb on top of Vortex and spend another few breems trying to forget. Or he could drown out the need with work, lose himself in the familiar and mundane, and allow his primary function to be his only function for a while.

He knew which one he preferred.

“That wasn’t the kind of hooking up I had in mind,” Vortex grumbled, but he bent his neck and allowed First Aid to connect to his medical port.

* * *

It wasn’t sex, but it sure was good. The more time the medic spent with him, the more Vortex relaxed. Those hands on his frame, that tiny diagnostic probe sitting snug in his medical port, even the odd nudge and vibration in his workings as First Aid did whatever it was he was doing; it was really nice.

What’s more, as time passed the fluids First Aid had given him filtered through his systems, making his movements smoother and his engine purr.

He just needed the all-clear from Onslaught on their Aerialbot problem, and everything would be fine.

Well, the all-clear from Onslaught and maybe a certain familiar slick warmth around his spike.

“You’re done,” First Aid said, his voice kind despite the apprehension that came through the bond. The medic’s valve ached, both from the night before, and from the empty needy crawl of static charge. The knowledge was clear, but along with it came another insight: a longing for his team, for the artificial light of his own medbay. For Streetwise leaning against the door, an energon cube in his hand; for Blades complaining his way through repairs. For Hot Spot and Groove coming back from patrol, grimy and tired, but satisfied by a day’s work well done.

“You gotta let go,” Vortex said softly. He caught First Aid’s wrist before the medic could take back his probe. “Sit down, come on. You’ll see them again, I said so, remember? But things can’t go back to how they were. That’s not who you are now.” When the medic twisted away, Vortex caught his other hand too. “We should go find somewhere more private, yeah?”

First Aid shook his head. “I have to find the code,” he said. “I have work to do.”

Ah, yeah, that. “Just a quick one?” Vortex said, but even the vaguest thought of breaking Megatron’s hold on them triggered the punishment subroutine. They both shivered, and Vortex forced the next words out before he could stop himself. “Keep the probe in. You gotta see the code in action.”

* * *

It took fifteen astroseconds to identify one part of the loyalty programming, and a further three joors to trace the extent of its influence through Vortex’s neural pathways.

While his mind was busy inside the rotary’s personality component, the spark bond allowed Vortex to lift First Aid on top of him. It was less humiliating than it could have been. His spike and valve were covered, and Vortex’s hands rested chastely on his waist. The worrying part was how comfortable he became. He knew he shouldn’t be; none of it should have been comforting or pleasant or any good thing. But it was.

He stayed where he was put, his helm on Vortex’s shoulder, a hand on his chest. Anxiety simmered every time Vortex shifted or sighed, but the interrogator didn’t _do_ anything. Surprisingly, he seemed capable of dismissing his own arousal for this.

As for himself, First Aid’s charge had settled and his temperature was in the normal range. Even his valve had stopped aching. It was a relief. But when he delved deeper into Vortex’s code, relief turned to dread, as the spark bond once again synchronised with his own core programming, manifesting in a powerful, urgent need to mend his captor.

He gathered data. Not just on the spark bond, but on Vortex’s base code, on the very foundations of his broken personality.

Perhaps he could do some good. Perhaps he could turn Vortex into someone worth saving.

It was ridiculous. He laughed aloud, a bitter sound that barely reached his audials. He didn’t watch for Vortex’s response, but delved back into the live code.

There was no fixing Vortex.

Still, he recalled his thought about constructive reprogramming, the ethically suspect last resort for dangerous, broken minds. It took time and effort; delicate surgery, orns of therapy, years even. Careful observation, a controlled environment. Commodities he didn’t possess in Combaticon HQ, and that wouldn’t exactly be easy to come by back home.

Even if he did, Vortex would never consent.

But, First Aid thought as he followed the twining strings of the loyalty programming, since when had consent mattered to the rotary?

It was a terrible thought.

“Easy,” Vortex said, and it was obvious that he reacted to the emotions caused by the thought and not the thought itself. He stroked First Aid’s helm and gently lifted one of his hands to kiss his fingertips. “You’re doing fine.”

“You don’t know what I’m doing,” First Aid said, and it was frightening how cold he sounded to himself.

But Vortex only kissed him again. “You’re doing fine,” he repeated. “I trust you.”

* * *

“Have you cracked it yet?” Onslaught started talking before he’d even reached the door. He clattered into medbay, his armour streaked with dirt and a crack in the corner of his visor.

First Aid’s head snapped up, a datasheet crumpling in his hands. A dozen what-ifs circled his CPU, a dozen images of Aerialbots grounded, in flames, broken. He shivered and clung to the edge of the table. _What have you done?_ The question paused on the cusp of speech, but he couldn’t force it through his vocaliser.

At least he wasn’t lying on Vortex any more. It didn’t make Onslaught’s presence any more bearable, but it did make him feel a little less exposed.

Against all common sense and experience, Vortex also helped. He stood behind First Aid, a hand on his shoulder, his energy field and spark radiating calm comfort. Lies, obviously, but it made thinking a shade easier.

“Are your audios malfunctioning?” Onslaught said. “I asked you a question.”

“Go on,” Vortex whispered.

First Aid rebooted his vocaliser, and the mechanism gave a sad little cough. “It’s not a case of cracking it,” he said quietly. He focused on his vents, trying to halt the climb in his temperature. “It self replicates; it has to, against your antivirus, um, software.” He glanced at the bent datasheet and the pad showing his own quick scrawl.

Onslaught’s engine revs softened, and his visor dimmed from glaring to just plain bright. “You’re saying it’s a virus?”

“I’m saying it behaves like one in certain circumstances,” First Aid replied. He pressed back against Vortex; he could feel the trembling begin deep in his struts before it even reached his armour. “It’s very sophisticated. It… um, it…” The words died. Onslaught was staring at him.

“Keep going,” Vortex said, so quiet his voice was almost lost in the hum of their systems.

“Yes,” Onslaught said. “Do.”

The shivering reached his hands, and First Aid put the ruined data sheet back on the table. “I have a theory,” he said. “It… it would be easier for me to…” he paused as Onslaught tensed, and Vortex’s fingers dug deep into his wheel well. “…to effect a cure if the programming is inert and, um, unable to activate.”

“You want us in stasis?” Onslaught said.

“Temporarily,” First Aid replied. “I would have to disconnect your databanks and isolate certain elements of your personality component. And even then there’s a risk.”

“A risk?” That orange visor flared as Onslaught drew closer. “What kind of risk?”

“You need a software purge,” First Aid said. He willed Onslaught to stop, to stay away, but it was already too late. He smelt of gunpowder and smoke and energon, and First Aid had to fight against the memory of being taken by him on the cargo bay floor.

“And?” Onslaught prompted. He leaned on the table, his canon barrels gleaming all except for the muzzles. “Tell me the risks.”

“Permanent corruption!” First Aid blurted. “Short term memory loss, data fragmentation, and in the worse case damage to the gestalt bond.”

Onslaught nodded in acknowledgment. There was a pause before he spoke again. “Is the worst case likely?”

“Not if you… if you allow me to work without being interrupted,” First Aid said. He swayed, dizzy all of a sudden. Vortex held him up, transmitting pleasure, approval, safety, but First Aid wanted to scream.

“No interruptions,” Onslaught said, the nodded again. “Agreed. But you will be accompanied at all times. Principled, you may be, but I’m not having any of my mechs alone with you when they’re in stasis.”

“One more… thing,” First Aid spat out the words, driving them past the block that seemed to have settled in his throat.

Onslaught stared. “Hmmm?”

“Don’t touch me,” First Aid said, and Vortex’s shock was palpable. “I’ll do this, but you don’t ever touch me again.”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Vortex said, as Onslaught’s engine snarled and his visor darkened.

First Aid vented hard. “Yes, I do.”

“You’re just tired,” Vortex told him.

“Quiet!” Onslaught roared. The silence stretched, and when he spoke again his tone was stern, but not hostile. “Medic, I accept your terms for the duration of this… procedure. Afterwards, we will reassess your position in relation to this team. And Vortex, if you know what’s good for you, and I sincerely doubt that’s the case, you will keep your vocaliser offline.” He gave First Aid another of those scrutinising looks. “Swindle will go first. You start immediately.”

* * *

“What’s the small print?” Swindle said. He hovered by the door, watching the medic in that wary, slinking way of his. Vortex wanted to punch him in the face.

“Small print?” First Aid asked. He finished wiping down the repair platform and threw the cloth into the waste chute. Vortex could only see the shaking of his hands because he was so close.

“The side effects,” Swindle said. “The worst case scenarios.”

While First Aid ran through the list, Vortex found a chair and dragged it over to the repair berth. He’d be slagged sooner than leave his mate alone with Swindle. It didn’t matter that the sly little fragger would soon be offline, and it didn’t matter that the cold was slowly seeping in, that the programming had detected something off with his thoughts. He would stay with his bond mate; it was the only thing to do.

“They’re not likely,” First Aid said. He glanced at Vortex, and the bond opened fully for one dizzying moment as their optics met. The chill had reached him; he was nervous, unhappy, determined. Confident in his skills, but terrified of Onslaught’s response should anything go wrong.

“You can do it,” Vortex said, and the medic didn’t object as Vortex kissed him gently on the lips. The warmth of him dismissed the chill and summoned a fierce surge of joy. Then it was over, and Vortex settled himself in the chair as Swindle made his way over to the platform.

“You gonna keep on doing that?” Swindle huffed. “For frags’ sake.”

“Could you lay with your head at this end, please,” First Aid said, and his refusal to acknowledge Swindle’s complaints was another wonderful burst of warmth against the cold.

“Yeah, whatever.” Swindle took his time getting comfy. “You glitches better not frag on me while I’m out.”

“You wish,” Vortex muttered.

“Get slagged.” Swindle finally lay down, then he got up again, adjusted the tire on his back, and threw himself onto the repair platform again.

“Getting to you,” Vortex said. “Ain’t it?”

“No,” Swindle snapped, but it obviously was. The gestalt bond reeked of it, the discomfort and loathing, the fear.

First Aid wiped down his hands and took a long, slow vent. Two of his stress-reduction techniques in one, Vortex noted. Interesting. He followed his bond mate’s every movement, pulling up memory files of the feel of each surface of his body, using the tactile recollection to keep the cold at bay.

“I’m going to put you in stasis,” First Aid said. “This might tingle a little, then it will be like you’re in recharge. In three… two… one…”

“Wait!” Swindle cried, but it was too late. He slumped, the light in his optics fading out and the gestalt bond suddenly, mercifully, free of him.

First Aid set to work.

It was difficult to watch. Not simply because Vortex didn’t want any part of his bond mate to come into contact with Swindle – not his beautiful, complex hands, nor his medical probe, and certainly not his mind – but because the loyalty programming had caught on.

He tried not to think about it. He began a loop in his conscious thoughts, ‘It’s just a scan. It’s standard maintenance,’ but every time he looked at Swindle he slipped up, and the chill came rushing back.

The medic felt it too, but he didn’t stop. He stood by the repair berth, his optics dimmed and his head down. He was perfect, the picture of dedication. Vortex longed to touch him, to bring the medic onto his lap, to spread his legs and ease open his panels and turn that empty, used ache into need. He relaxed into the fantasy.

He’d use his fingers first, while the Autobot kissed him with that wild and slightly desperate abandon. Then perhaps one of the toys he’d commissioned a while back. Something to flick over each of the internal nodes, something to make First Aid squirm in way that a spike or a glossa alone never could.

“That’s distracting,” First Aid whispered. “Please, I need to concentrate.”

“And I need entertaining,” Vortex replied, but he made an effort to keep it back from the spark bond. It wasn’t easy; unlike the gestalt bond, sharing was the default. Even in this early phase, with the bond synchronising at random, it took a force of will to keep anything to himself. In time, though, he wouldn’t have to. First Aid would get used to it, and the shared experience would become as much a part of him as his diagnostics instruments or his fuel pumps.

“Thankyou,” First Aid said, and it was as unconscious as his reassurance had been the day he saved Vortex’s life. Vortex smiled and sank back into the fantasy.

* * *

Joors passed, but First Aid hardly noticed. He was a medic again, doing what he’d been designed to do. Decepticon, Autobot, it didn’t matter. His base code made no distinction. He’d been built for war, and for the end of war. To protect Cybertronian and human alike; to enable reconstruction and rehabilitation as much as to defend.

Ironhide had called it a fit of optimism, Wheeljack’s folly, and had teased Ratchet more than once for going along with it. But the teasing had been good natured, and First Aid had always got the impression that Ironhide was secretly quite fond of them.

As he probed deeper through Swindle’s neural pathways, First Aid thought of Ironhide and Ratchet. They’d never shied from battle; they’d taken their victories where they could find them.

Would Ratchet have used Swindle’s unconsciousness to his advantage?

First Aid was certain he would.

He could justify it too. Swindle was one of his captors. Amoral, scheming, dangerous. He’d been convicted of collaborating with the Quintessons at the beginning of the Golden Age. He traded in death; he was a war criminal, a murderer, a slaver.

But, as he lay helpless on the repair platform, his vents coming slow and his synaptic activity artificially paused, Swindle was First Aid’s patient.

“You’re running hot,” Vortex said. “I got you some coolant.”

“Hmm?” First Aid looked up. Code scrolled down his HUD as his attention split. “What?”

“Coolant,” Vortex said. He was smiling, eager. First Aid didn’t understand. “You drink it. You want some energon too?”

“Um, no, no thankyou.” It was the wrong response, and his second thankyou in five joors. Vortex didn’t deserve his politeness. “I need to focus.”

Vortex nodded and pressed the tub of coolant into his hand. He was also running hot, the ghost of the Detention Centre creeping through his wiring. It chilled him to the spark, and his frame struggled to compensate. First Aid fought the urge to add Vortex’s vital signs to the running list of things to monitor; it was only a hallucination – terrible as it was. The brownouts weren’t real.

The great crashing thud on the medbay door, however, that was real. The door opened and Brawl fell through.

“Fraggers didn’t tell me you started already!” he yelled. “What’s going on? You fixed him yet? Why’s he still out?” He clutched his head and winced. “Slaggin’ spawn of a trash compactor!”

“Distract him,” First Aid said to Vortex before his conscious mind could catch up with his medical programming. He managed to hold the ‘please’, but the damage was done. Vortex’s delight outstripped even the effects of his punishment. It wasn’t being told what to do, or even the odd absence of fear; Vortex saw it as the first step towards proper functioning as a team. The first real stage of First Aid’s integration into the Combaticons, and his acceptance of their status as a bonded pair.

Swallowing his nausea, First Aid leaned on the edge of the repair platform, and thrust himself back into his work.

And it _was_ his work. It couldn’t help but benefit the Autobots, to liberate an entire gestalt from Megatron’s chains. He pushed the spark bond from his mind, and shut off his audials to Brawl’s frantic wailing, to Vortex’s hushed reassurances. The code absorbed him, and he devoted his full attention to following the path of the new software, the commands that he had modified from standard types in his medical database.

Swindle’s frame was slack, higher cognitive function suspended. His subconscious still clocked, spinning dreams he would never remember, wheeling through memories at random, reliving key moments of his life. Just like a defrag cycle, only not one he could wake from without help.

For maybe the hundredth time since he’d come online in Wheeljack’s lab back at the Ark, First Aid marvelled at the power his creators had seen fit to give to him.

* * *

“You let Blastie frag him?” Brawl asked. He hunched in the corner, his chin on his knees and his cannon barrel looming forward.

Vortex sat next to him, optics on his bond mate. He grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Frag you!” Brawl snapped. “This hurts, you know that? It really _hurts_.” He banged the side of his head, as though to dislodge the pain. “Least you could do is gimme somethin’ better to think about.”

Vortex suppressed a shudder. “Sure,” he said. “OK, yeah, we had some fun with the shuttle.”

“And?” Brawl prompted, but then his optics locked on Swindle, and he cringed. “Why’s he takin’ so long? Ons says he’s been in here _joors_. Swin don’t get outta this, I’m gonna pound your stupid face in.”

 _I’d like to see you try,_ Vortex thought, but First Aid had asked for a distraction, not a fight. “Swin’s gonna be fine,” he said. _More’s the pity_. “The medic’s on it.”

Brawl’s engine whined and his denta squealed. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “You think he can do it?”

Vortex shrugged, and his rotors swayed. “Sure.” The graze of air was welcome, just like the heat coming off Brawl and the glare of the strip lights. Interfacing would be better, but in the light of his punishment, any input was good. “Aid’ll do it,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Brawl’s denta screeched, and he didn’t respond.

* * *

Swindle came round slowly. His optics flickered, a rapid series of reboots as the nodes struggled to recalibrate. He looked up at First Aid, his lips moving for a moment, but the only sound he made was a staticky hiss.

“Oh frag, he’s up, he’s up!” Brawl launched himself across the room. He careened into the repair table, and First Aid had to leap to catch the other side before the whole thing toppled.

“Careful!” First Aid said, then froze as Swindle grabbed him by the wrist.

“Let go,” Vortex growled. He stepped up beside Brawl, the bond seething with jealousy. But there was relief too, and the look he gave Swindle was far from murderous.

Swindle rubbed his optics, then tried to reach around to the back of his neck with his free hand. The cable linking them juddered.

“Not yet,” First Aid said. “I have to run a few tests.” He didn’t want to, but the need to safely complete the process was stronger than his loathing, and even that had softened in the face of the new data from Vortex.

“Swin!” Brawl cried. “Can you hear me? You’re OK right? Does it hurt any more?”

“…’r loud,” Swindle murmured. “Fraggin’ shuttup.”

“Step back please, Brawl,” First Aid said, and to his surprise it worked. “Swindle, let go of my arm.” That worked too. Swindle itched around the medical probe, then looked up at Vortex.

“Frag Megatron,” he said slowly, and with each word his grin widened. “Frag him sideways with a rusty fragging chainsaw. Who fancies a coup?”

“Aft!” Brawl reeled, clutching his head, and Vortex snarled. But he was smiling too, despite the cruel encroachment of the cold and the dark.

“You’re done,” First Aid said. He unplugged his probe, and leaned against the shelves before he could fall. Vortex was there in an instant, holding him, stroking him. The darkness ebbed and the chill with it. Dimly, he heard Swindle taunting Brawl, insulting Megatron. Swindle laughing.

Then the door clattered open. “Medic,” Onslaught barked. “Did it work?”

“Frag yes!” Swindle yelled, before First Aid could think of a response. He nodded, and pushed away from Vortex. He could take his own weight. He needed to.

Onslaught activated his comms. “Blast Off, report to medbay.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but went over to Swindle. “You have work to do,” he said, and it was only because Vortex was watching for it that First Aid noticed the dimming of Onslaught’s optics, and the slight hunch of his shoulders. Pain responses, the loyalty programming taking its toll.

“I sure do,” Swindle replied. He swung himself off the repair platform and stretched. “And slag it feels good!” He flashed First Aid a smug little grin, punched Brawl lightly on the arm, and left.

“I wanna go next,” Brawl said, but Onslaught was already settling himself on the platform.

“I have deactivated my firewalls,” Onslaught said to First Aid. “You will begin as soon as Blast Off has arrived.”

First Aid nodded. He didn’t want to, oh scrap how he didn’t want to. To be that close to Onslaught, to get inside him, to examine his code and scour him of the hostile software. He couldn’t do it.

“Yes you can,” Vortex whispered. “You will.”

“We had an agreement,” Onslaught said. “I thought an Autobot would be good for his word. Unless he believes, perhaps, that I caused permanent harm to his comrades earlier?”

First Aid froze; he’d forgotten the flyover.

“They left under their own power,” Onslaught said. “Now get started.”

First Aid wanted to thump him. He couldn’t work out where the urge had come from – Vortex or Brawl or perhaps even Swindle’s violent joy conducted to him via both the bonds. It couldn’t be his own, surely? He wanted to hit Onslaught hard in the face, and keep on hitting until his mask split and his visor shattered. He wanted to make a dent in Onslaught’s armour, to give him welding scars he would carry until his plates needed replacing.

It shook him. His own feelings should be irrelevant; this was treatment, it was important. But how could he treat a mech he despised?

It had been different with Swindle. The loathing had been Vortex’s – _mainly_ Vortex’s – and although First Aid hadn’t wanted to touch him, the thought hadn’t made his armour crawl and his tanks churn. The idea of plugging into Swindle didn’t make him feel simultaneously violent and frail, like he wanted to collapse and purge and beat his patient into a broken, crumpled heap all at once.

“He needs a breem,” Vortex said. First Aid didn’t hear Onslaught’s reply, Vortex had covered his audials. The rotary flared his energy field and steered him into the relative privacy of the storage closet.

“I’m not in the mood,” First Aid groaned. The bond made him a liar, but Vortex’s hands were on his shoulders, and his kisses on the top of First Aid’s helm were soft and reassuring.

“Don’t let him think you’re weak,” Vortex said. He tilted First Aid’s head up, kissed his cheeks, his lips. “He’ll accept you, just do this.”

“You’ve got sixty-five astroseconds!” Onslaught’s announcement arrived muffled through the thin steel of the door.

“I don’t want him to accept me,” First Aid said.

Vortex’s smile was indulgent, and all the more frightening for it. “I know you’re still torqued,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Just don’t flinch when you hook up. Show him your skills, he’ll respect that.”

First Aid shook his head. “Respect should be freely given.” He looked down; it was a waste of words. Vortex would never change, and he’d never understand. But First Aid’s spark and his core code rebelled, insisting that nothing was a lost cause, that Vortex just needed to be repaired.

“Respect should be earned,” Vortex said. “You can do this.”

 _I don’t want to_ , First Aid thought. He could hear the outer door opening, the heavy thud of Blast Off’s footsteps.

“Come on,” Vortex said. “Time’s nearly up.”

First Aid gave himself three astroseconds to clear his mind and remind himself that Vortex’s touch wasn’t welcome, that the rotary’s chassis wasn’t an appropriate place to lean.

Back in med bay, Onslaught waited with as much patience as he seemed capable. Blast Off sat in Vortex’s chair, his cannons buzzing and his legs crossed. He had a datapad in his hand, but hadn’t yet started reading.

“Glad you could join us,” he commented. On the repair table, Onslaught vented steam and leaned his head forward.

“Do it,” he said. “And don’t waste time talking. I know what’s coming, get it over with.”

First Aid nodded. He un-spooled the medical probe from his wrist, opened his mouth to give the pre-connection advice, and closed it again. Onslaught didn’t want the speech, and he didn’t want delays. First Aid’s vents came ragged, and his hands shook. His systems only returned to anything approaching normal when he backed up against Vortex and the spark bond began to spin him its lies.

“Now, medic,” Onslaught said, and his voice creaked like bending metal. “I don’t have time for this.”

First Aid grabbed Vortex’s wrist, but he didn’t need to ask. Vortex followed him to the repair platform and stood behind him, not close enough to touch – thank Primus – but close enough for their energy fields to mesh and the false reassurance of his presence to become a tool.

First Aid used it to steady himself. The first truly positive thing he’d taken from the spark bond. It wasn’t good, and it wasn’t right, but it was necessary.

Feeling sick to his tanks, but stable, capable, he plugged into Onslaught, and prepared the download.


	9. Chapter 9

It took First Aid four joors to scour Onslaught clean.

Blast Off watched in that lazy way of his, a glance over the top of his datapad every couple of breems. After a while, his cannons stopped buzzing, and he appeared less a guard and more someone who was simply biding his time. By contrast, Brawl paced, alternately clutching his head and kicking the ground, impatient for his turn. Vortex watched him, standing behind First Aid and fighting the encroaching cold each step of the way.

Onslaught left as soon as he was done, and Blast Off took his place. Brawl grumbled, but accepted it after Blast Off’s reassurance that he would be next.

First Aid leaned heavily against Vortex. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but he didn’t know what else he could do. The spark bond eased his trembling, and stopped him sobbing as he wiped down his hands. It helped him keep his memories in check, and purged the scent of Onslaught from his olfactory sensors.

“You need a break,” Vortex said, but First Aid just shook his head.

“I need to finish,” he said. “You can’t combine like this, you…” His voice failed. Why would he want them to combine? Just because they were a gestalt, because it was a function of their programming? “I need to finish,” he repeated, and Vortex’s approval was profound.

Blast Off took just over three joors, and Brawl two. When the tank finally rolled off the repair platform, whooping and cheering, the sun had already crested the lip of the crater.

“We’re gonna keep you, right?” Brawl said. “You’re gonna be there when we smash his stupid silver head in!”

Vortex winced. “Get lost, go see Swin or something.”

“Can’t,” Brawl said, although he didn’t sound sure. “Ons said no-one’s gotta be in stasis without one of us there.”

“I recharge with him,” Vortex said. “If he was gonna kill me, he’d have done it already. Ain’t that right?”

First Aid glared, and set about cleaning the bunk. He didn’t need an image like that, and he certainly didn’t need Brawl eyeing him up as though the tank was planning something.

“I can get you your tiger?” Brawl said. “She's a good tiger. You’re gonna be our medic now, ain’t ya?”

“For Primus’ sake, Brawl, frag off!” Vortex snapped.

“Can I hold him first?” Brawl pressed. “Just a little?”

“Ask him,” Vortex said. “Not me. And if you put your hand on his aft again, expect to lose it.”

First Aid acceded because it was easier than not. He tensed against the crushing strength of Brawl’s arms, the embrace too tight for comfort. Brawl held on as Vortex got steadily less patient behind him.

“Enough,” Vortex said. “Let him go.”

“You get him the rest of the time,” Brawl whined, clinging on. “And Autobots like hugs, ain’t that right, Aid? I seen the Prime huggin’ that little yellow one, and the black and white one with the visor.”

“I’d like you to let go now,” First Aid said quietly. “I need to prepare the next round of treatment.”

Brawl laughed and squeezed him tight, then released him. “Ain’t like you to go last,” he said to Vortex. “You gettin’ an upgrade or somethin’ too?”

“What I’m getting is a laser scalpel and I’m gonna carve my name into your gun turret, now _frag off_.”

“Don’t,” First Aid began, but Brawl was laughing.

He headed for the door. “I get it,” he said. “You gotta do all that stuff you do when you’re bonded.”

 _Not now_ , First Aid though. _Please, Primus._ He leant on the soft surface of the repair platform, and waited for the sudden rush of charge to dissipate.

The door closed behind Brawl, leaving them alone.

“Here,” Vortex said, putting a cube on the bunk in front of him. “Get some fuel into you.” He kissed the side of First Aid’s neck. “You need it.”

“You don’t know what I need,” First Aid said. “Lay down, and lean your head forward.”

“No.”

“No?” That wasn’t right, Vortex wanted this, he loathed the programming, what it did to him.

“You’ve proved yourself to Onslaught,” he said. “I can wait a few more joors. You need to defrag.”

It was horrible when Vortex was right. Still, First Aid resisted. “I’m sufficiently energised,” he said. “My abilities are not impaired. Please, get on the table.”

Vortex shook his head, and his lips curved in a calculating smile. “Never said you weren’t capable. But I’m not getting on there until you’ve had some rest.”

First Aid pushed up, away from the cube. It took a moment to gain his equilibrium. “Don’t say that.” It was something Groove or Hot Spot would say. Not something he should ever hear coming from Vortex. “And don’t pick me up!” He grabbed Vortex’s wrists just as he began to move. “I’m in charge of this procedure,” he snapped, and his voice shook as hard as his limbs. He forged on, using the bond to back up his words. “Not you. Get on the platform and give me access to your medical port.”

At first, Vortex didn’t answer, he just stared. Then his optics brightened, and he closed the small distance between them. “Frag, you’re gorgeous.”

First Aid didn’t stand a chance. The charge soared, his sensor-net glowed. The bond pulsed with desire, and this time First Aid allowed himself to be lifted. He took his optics offline, his arms around Vortex’s neck. His aft landed on the repair platform, his thighs parted. He surrendered to the kiss and the fierce caress, the heat of Vortex’s spike cover between his legs.

He was tired and sore, worn out from a night on his back over Blast Off’s chest, and a full Earth day of solid work. From the worry about Silverbolt and the unnamed jet, and the stress of tending Onslaught.

He didn’t need this as well.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Vortex said, and slid a hand under First Aid’s aft. There was no option but to comply. Especially when Vortex drew back the cover to his cable and port. The rotary unwound his cord and plugged him in. Then the soft click of a connector in his port, and the heady spark-strong thrill of the interface.

When Vortex carried him from medbay, First Aid hardly noticed. He took advantage of the bond, and the chance to forget, for a little while, exactly what it was he was doing here, and who it was taking him back to the recharge chamber which still smelt of ozone and hot engines.

He didn’t boot his optics, instead he seized a rotor and arched into the recoil as his palm scraped the rows of tiny sensors on the leading edge.

Vortex sighed, and slowly, gently, laid him down on the bunk. Fingers teased his wheel wells, and plucked at his seams. He moaned, hoping for delirium, wishing for the bond to consume him utterly.

* * *

First Aid was perfect. Submissive, responsive, lost in sensation as his hips bucked and his thighs squeezed. Vortex hadn’t planned this. He’d wanted the medic to rest, to fuel up and defrag. But the fire in his optics, the determination as he asserted himself; he was too good to resist.

“Let me fill you,” Vortex whispered, and even the medic’s brief flare of panic was smothered almost instantly by the bond.

First Aid shook his head, but he spread his legs wider and his panel slid back at the first brief press of Vortex’s fingertips.

His mate was becoming bolder. He keened, back arching as he pressed himself into Vortex’s embrace. He did everything right, followed each murmur of the spark bond, each urge of the interface. He teased Vortex’s rotors, and nibbled on his lips. His valve clenched on nothing, and the sound he made when Vortex pressed just a little way inside him was glorious.

He was damaged still, the sensors broken by Onslaught hadn’t yet had a chance to heal. But the medic needed this, an affirmation of the pleasures of the spark bond. A consolidation of the progress he had made over the past few days.

“I want to spike you,” Vortex said, and his voice was muffled by the delicious curves of First Aid’s mouth. “I want to feel you around me. Frag, you’re wonderful.”

First Aid whimpered, then gasped as Vortex thrust his fingers a little deeper. He wriggled, trying to inch down the bunk, to force Vortex’s fingertips to connect with his most sensitive of nodes. “ _Please!_ ” It was hardly a word, more a ghost of a whisper, but it made Vortex’s spark flare and his spike crash against the inside of its cover.

“Oh frag.” He froze as the pain blossomed. Another layer of experience, a new and novel edge. He withdrew his fingers to First Aid’s evident disapproval, retracted his cover, and lined up his spike.

The Autobot sighed, and curled again around him. Those strong grounder legs encircled his hips, and tried to tug him closer. The hands on his rotors flicked and teased, and First Aid’s optics blinked on for the briefest of moments.

Entering him was bliss. One smooth, even thrust and it was as though they’d been built for each other. It was the bond, he knew, taking something that was good and making it amazing, the best that it could be. He welcomed it, just as he welcomed the new insights, the power he had over his mate; and the other things too, the changes in himself. The need to protect rather than destroy, to bring pleasure not pain.

The need to see his bonded properly nourished and maintained, fully satisfied in all possible ways. He truly wanted First Aid to be happy.

And those noises the medic was making, they were the sounds of a happy mech. Fervent whimpers and sighs, in time with the clenching of his valve and the sear of Vortex’s spike against his nodes.

He was confident the other aspects of their partnership would slip into place. It would take a while, but life never ran smooth, not even for bonded pairs. They would get there, though, and it would be everything the gestalt had failed to be. Everything Swindle’s avarice had ruined.

First Aid hauled on a rotor, pulling himself up and deepening the kiss. Chasing the charge, feeling the effects of his own hands on Vortex’s blades carried to him via the connection.

Vortex slowed, drawing it out. He didn’t want them to climax just yet, not when there was so much more to experience.

* * *

Evening brought another spiking, in the storage closet at the back of medbay. First Aid sat precariously on a shelf, braced on his hands as Vortex thrust into him.

He wasn’t sure how they’d made it so far. The bond was strengthening, the need to interface intense. Worse, even, than the first time. First Aid stared over Vortex’s shoulder at the door and wondered if they were glitched. It wasn’t meant to get worse, it was meant to ease off.

He’d come so close to initiating it, too.

They’d recharged together, a tangled heap of rotors and limbs, only coming online when First Aid’s need for energon was stronger than his need to complete the defrag. On the way back to medbay, he’d thought of touching Vortex’s rotors. Had been about to before he’d stopped himself.

The arousal had been maddening. He was tired of the shame and the heat, and especially tired of the effort it took to summon his own true responses. It was as though the spark bond had buried them.

He discarded the thought as his valve contracted around Vortex’s spike, and wave after wave of ecstasy rolled through him.

“I love that look on your face,” Vortex said as he gave one final thrust and held himself still, as deep as he could.

“I don’t care,” First Aid said, but where he felt bitterness, his words only came out tired. He was stretched, overfull, he didn’t want to know what Vortex thought about his expression.

“Sure you don’t,” Vortex replied. “That cube’s still waiting for you.”

* * *

Onslaught didn’t send anyone to watch over Vortex, and Brawl didn’t come back of his own accord. First Aid worked in silence, grateful for the chance to be alone.

He was grateful, too, for the muted state of the bond. With Vortex in stasis, the urge to touch had waned, the needy arousal that by rights should have been shattered when Vortex fragged him in the supply closet was still there, but it was dull enough that he could push it to the back of his mind.

By the second joor, he’d begun to relax, and by the third he had tracked the full extent of the loyalty programming in Vortex’s damaged mind. He was nearly finished when Swindle burst through the door.

“You’re needed,” he said.

First Aid flinched, startled. “Why?” he said, and wished he hadn’t spoken at all. With an effort of will, he paused the procedure.

“Official business,” Swindle said. “We need your comms.” He rounded the bunk, keeping out of arm’s reach. “Why’s he still out?”

“Don’t touch him,” First Aid snapped. The look Swindle gave him was venomous. He shuddered, and seized control of his vocaliser. “There’s maybe a joor still to go. Please…”

Swindle’s hand hovered over Vortex’s shoulder, fingers almost – but not quite – brushing the surface of the Decepticon insignia branded into the metal.

It took First Aid a moment to realise that it was an insignia Swindle now lacked.

The silence stretched, then Swindle laughed and grinned that cruel, smug grin of his. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But you gotta follow me. Unless you want Onslaught in here.”

Disconnecting from Vortex was horrible. Leaving him alone in stasis was worse, but First Aid could think of no alternative. Onslaught wouldn’t wait, and Vortex wasn’t ready to be revived.

He heard Onslaught before he saw him, his voice booming along the wide metal corridor.

“You will be silent! I am your commanding officer!”

Then Blast Off, for once loud and sounding angry as the Pit. “Ignorant glitch. I am your superior in _every_ conceivable way.”

Swindle muttered something and rolled his optics. He kicked the door before opening it, and a scuffle of feet might have been Onslaught and Blast Off backing away from each other.

“This is the war room,” Swindle said, as though he’d been giving Aid a guided tour. “Ironic really. Gentlemen?”

“Take a seat,” Blast Off ordered, and Onslaught’s engine revved dangerously loud.

A few chairs formed a line in front of a bank of monitors. Brawl sat in one, spinning slowly around and staring at his treads. He looked up and waved as First Aid came in, as though he thought they were friends.

“Medic,” Onslaught snapped, but First Aid was staring at Blast Off. Like Swindle, he too had been stripped of his insignia, although Onslaught and Brawl still wore theirs. “ _Medic!_ ” Onslaught repeated. “Sit.”

First Aid shook his head. “I’d rather stand,” he said, and was surprised that his voice didn’t break.

Onslaught glared, then the anger drained from his voice. “Very well,” he said. “Brawl, engage the electro disruptors. Swindle, prepare the chip.”

First Aid’s heels hit the wall before he even knew he was going backwards. He’d begun to shiver, and a static haze speckled his vision. When Onslaught walked over to him, his only thought was that he wished Vortex was beside him.

“You have no reason to be afraid,” Onslaught said, as Swindle fiddled with an input console beside the monitors, and Brawl wriggled through a maintenance hatch at their base. He kept a polite distance, and his mask was back, his expression grave. “With hindsight, it wasn’t the wisest of decisions to be harsh with you. I was unaware of your true value. It won’t happen again.”

There was nothing First Aid could say to that. He stared, unable to make sense of it. Had Onslaught just apologised? It was a trap, it had to be. The four of them had conspired, they were going to take advantage now that Vortex wasn’t around.

“Do you understand?” Onslaught said, and his voice carried a hint of impatience.

First Aid nodded, although he didn’t.

“We require use of your communications hardware,” Onslaught announced. “Blast Off, explain.” He backed off, then abandoned First Aid to talk to Swindle.

Blast Off huffed, his ailerons clicking. “Brawl’s disabling our transmitters,” he said. “We need yours because were we to use our own, Soundwave would know. We could use our integrated hardware, but Soundwave monitors our frequencies. I’m sure you’ll be required to fix that little problem too.” He leant against the wall and folded his arms. “I won’t ask if you understand, I’m sure you do. You’re far more intelligent than you look.”

“Ready!” Brawl yelled, easing himself out of the maintenance hatch.

Swindle nodded. “Done,” he said, and this time his grin was pure hopeful joy.

“First Aid,” Onslaught said. “Please connect to the main monitor. We require visual as well as audio.”

It took First Aid a moment to move, and even then his limbs protested. He didn’t want to step between Onslaught and Brawl, with Blast Off closing in from behind and Swindle just a short distance away. The grey in his vision got worse, his shaking became rattling.

“That one,” Brawl said helpfully, pointing to the only appropriate port. First Aid unrolled his medical probe – he wasn’t about to open any of his hatches in this company – and plugged himself in.

“Now,” Onslaught said. “Put us through to your commander.”

First Aid gaped. “What…” But his voice failed, and all he could think was that Hot Spot shouldn’t be made to see whatever it was they were about to do.

“We don’t have all day,” Onslaught said, and First Aid fought to keep himself upright, to stop his visual feed from fragmenting. His spark was a ball of dread; he longed for the false reassurance of the bond, for the interrogator’s loathsome hands on his shoulders, chest pressed against his back.

Onslaught stepped closer, opened his mouth to speak, but First Aid shook his head. “All right,” he managed. “All right, I’ll do it.”

In the handful of astroseconds it took to connect, First Aid tried to look anywhere but at the Combaticons. Swindle rocked on his heels, hands clasped at the small of his back. Brawl seemed nervous, and even Blast Off had an air of expectation about him. Only Onslaught was calm, the serious set to his faceplates as blank as his mask would have been.

“Aid?” Hot Spot’s voice came a microsecond before his picture appeared on the screen. Then the image on his monitor must have also resolved, because his jaw dropped and his optics flared. “Aid, what’s going on? Are you hurt?”

“He’s fine,” Onslaught said, and the lie made First Aid want to kick him. “I wish to talk to Prowl.”

“Why?” Hot Spot said. “What do you want?”

“To discuss terms,” Onslaught replied. “Swindle, pass the chip to First Aid.”

“You can negotiate with me,” Hot Spot said. “Aid, can you hear me?”

First Aid nodded. So that’s what all this was about. He’d gone from prisoner to hostage in the flicker of an optic.

“Actually,” Onslaught said. “I don’t believe we can.”

Swindle stepped forward. “Under article sixteen of the Iacon Code for the Conduct and Resolution of Conflict, we have a proposal to make.” He pressed a chip into a slot on the console and glanced at First Aid. “Send it over.”

“You… do?” Hot Spot was obviously confused. He looked down, fingers dancing over the keypad. Then he froze. “You wish to sue for _peace?_ ”

First Aid’s head snapped up, and his engine stalled.

“We wish to forge an alliance,” Onslaught said. “I believe the humans have a saying for this; the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Your medic has removed a significant obstacle to our freedom from Megatron. We have the element of surprise; we must act.”

Hot Spot hit a button on his console, and the door behind him closed. “I need to speak with First Aid,” he said. “Alone.”

There was a moment’s pause as Onslaught appeared to consider it, then he nodded. “Make it quick,” he said, and ordered the others out of the room.

“Aid…” Hot Spot leaned forward, one hand on the screen. “Are you all right? We thought you might… But Mirage gave us the coordinates for their HQ and Silverbolt made a scan. He didn’t pick up your energy signature.”

First Aid leaned in to the screen, and pressed his palm to the image of his commander’s hand. “I miss you,” he said, and the words were so quiet he didn’t know if the microphone would even pick them up. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean… Vortex, he… They shut me indoors, medbay must be shielded. I shouldn't have gone, it’s all my fault.”

“No it isn’t,” Hot Spot countered. “Don’t even think that. You’ll be OK. You’re coming home, we’ll come and get you.”

“Please,” First Aid said. “Soon.” He rubbed his optics. He couldn’t believe it. He was going home, to his team, and his friends; to his city full of humans, and his own familiar medbay. His own tools and supplies, where he could take all necessary time to repair Vortex’s malfunctions.

The thought caught him off guard, and he whimpered.

“Aid!” Hot Spot cried. “Aid, look at me. What’s wrong? Have they hurt you?”

First Aid tried to nod and shake his head at once. He felt pathetic.

“We love you,” Hot Spot said. “Remember that. We love you, and we’ll be there to bring you home very soon.”

The control room door slid open, and Blast Off coughed. “We are pressed for time,” he said. “Commander,” he addressed Hot Spot, and his civility was truly disorientating. “If you wish to take advantage of this opportunity, I suggest you put us through to Prowl.”

* * *

The world slid in and out of focus. First Aid leaned heavily on the console, and tried to be grateful for the mechanometer between himself and Onslaught, for the lack of hands on his armour, the freedom to keep himself to himself.

Prowl questioned him, a breem alone while the Combaticons again waited outside the door. Had he really removed the loyalty programming? What kind of code had it been? Was there any chance a portion of it could have escaped the purge and be laying dormant, waiting to reactivate?

First Aid answered as well as he could. With each new question, his spark seemed to shrink; the dread returned, seeping into everything until even the knowledge that he would soon see his team became a cold and distant thing.

He was beginning to think that he wouldn’t.

Prowl fetched Prime, and the two talked with Onslaught and Swindle. So many questions, but Blast Off put a stop to it by suggesting a meeting face-to-face. Somewhere neutral and safe. Somewhere Soundwave wouldn’t think to spy on them.

First Aid was to remain at Combaticon HQ, part gesture of good will, part safeguard. Comm calls were to be kept to a minimum to avoid alerting Soundwave. The news robbed the strength from his limbs. He spooled out his medical cable and found a chair to sit in before he could fall.

He just wanted to go home.

“Two joors,” Onslaught said, and instructed First Aid to cut the feed.

“That went well,” Swindle commented.

Onslaught nodded his agreement. “Get ready, we leave in three breems. First Aid, a word.” He stayed out of arm’s reach, and First Aid stared at his shins. “As soon as the treaty is signed, you’ll be at liberty to come and go as you please.”

It was a mistake to look up, but First Aid couldn’t help himself. How could Onslaught think he would want to come back?

“Your bond is key.” Onslaught caught his gaze and held it. “ _You_ are key. If you truly want an end to the war, you’ll do everything you can to facilitate this alliance.”

Everything he could? Oh Primus no; the implications were nauseating. “And after that?” First Aid whispered. It was the first time the thought of a lasting peace had brought him anything but joy. “What then?”

“We take back Cybertron,” Onslaught replied. “All of us. As Cybertronians.”

“What about Earth? You tried to destroy it… you…”

“This foul organic slagheap? We’re not interested in Earth.” Onslaught straightened up, looking every inch the commander. “It’s time for a new order to ascend. You know what they did to us. Megatron and Shockwave will fall; Cybertron will be ours.”

* * *

The walk back to medbay was sobering. Being a hostage didn’t feel much different from being a prisoner. Outside, Blast Off’s engines roared, then a thud echoed through the air as the shuttle broke the sound barrier.

The Combaticons were gone. Only Vortex remained, lying exactly where First Aid had left him. In stasis, he looked strange. It was the lack of animation, the absence of his twisted smile, and the mobile quirk of his expressions.

The bond activated, requiring Vortex to wake up, to hold his mate and sooth his trembling.

It was impossible. And it was equally impossible to get straight to work. First Aid pulled up a stool and perched on the edge, leaning over the side of the repair platform. Fully aware that it was hardly ethical, he traced the contours of Vortex’s cheek, and allowed himself to imagine, for a moment, that the mech he was bonded to wasn’t an amoral monster, but a reasonable person.

Then he rested his head on Vortex’s shoulder, and cried.

He gave himself a while. The ferocity of his sobbing was hardly a surprise, but it was a shock to experience. He wanted his team, _needed_ them. He needed to go home, to be safe and calm in his own room and with his own things.

But the nightmare wouldn’t be over. Vortex would no longer be his enemy; First Aid would never be free.

And even if it got back to Prowl what had happened, how could the Autobots forsake this kind of opportunity? The best he could hope for was distance, time, separation.

No, he thought, that wasn’t the best he could hope for. The bond would plague them both; Vortex would chase him to the ends of the universe if he had to.

The best he could hope for would be to fix the problem at its source.

He gave himself another breem. His processors clocked as the crying subsided; it was as though he was outside himself, watching the sobs die down as his mind churned away at his new problem.

Heaving a sigh, he grabbed a cloth to wipe his hands, and re-connected himself to Vortex. The bond detected it instantly, and the nausea returned as his core programming yet again lined up with the needs of his spark.

* * *

It didn’t take long to clear Vortex of the rest of the loyalty programming. Diagnosing his malfunction, however, was far more difficult.

First Aid had the knowledge, pre-programmed by Ratchet and buried in his databanks, but he’d never had cause to use it. He wasn’t a psychologist, and his exposure to patients with similar minds to Vortex had been nil.

Taking another calming vent, he began with a physical check. Thorough and methodical, from the core of Vortex’s personality component and out. First Aid checked each circuit; he delved into every wire and ensured that each link was sound and each connection uncompromised.

There was nothing wrong.

He scanned Vortex’s code, running it through the medical console when his own processors proved too slow. It took so long, there was so much, but there was nothing missing, and again he found nothing he could fix.

After a short break, he took a different approach. He made himself as stable as he could on the stool by the platform, connected their conventional interface equipment, and – with the full approval of the bond – moved in through Vortex’s unconscious mind.

Something was broken, it had to be. No-one could be so cruel by design.

Memories opened at random, scenes caught, enveloped, and let him go, so quick all he could process was a snapshot of each. The view from a high building in Kaon; Swindle drunk and laughing; a silver femme transforming into a sleek Praxian hovercar. And other scenes too; a blue heliformer exploding, dark hands awash with energon, a broken face with staring dull optics.

The symptoms, First Aid thought, not the cause.

Briefly, he wondered what in Primus’ name he was doing. He wasn’t qualified for this, he lacked the experience. But the bond filled him with a fierce, possessive territoriality. Vortex was his; he could trust no-one else.

After a while, he accessed Vortex’s internal commands. Option after option offered specialist scans. First Aid ran them all, and scoured the results. Vortex was amoral, un-empathic, impulsive, sadistic and cruel; but there was nothing in the architecture of his personality component, or the coding of his spark, that denied him the potential for empathy, for a conscience.

Sitting straighter, First Aid marshalled his thoughts and began a new line of enquiry. The conscience wasn’t seated in any one particular chip; it was a product of multiple components all working together and augmented by memory. Present those components might be, and structurally sound, but had experience somehow caused their combined function to fail?

He left the row of internal commands running, but gave it only fifteen percent of his processing power.

As such, it took him a moment to notice the new option.

_Restore factory defaults._

First Aid paused all other functions. He examined the command; a simple row of glyphs composed of formal Kaon script.

It couldn’t be; those had been phased out during the Golden Age. Even Warpath - who’d been factory built vorns before the phasing out – had taken the time to have it removed from his base code. It was horrible, a hangover from Quintesson rule, and a dim and distant past none of the older Autobots ever liked to talk about.

First Aid could only wonder why Vortex still had it.

 _Restore factory defaults?_ It flashed up again, this time in the interrogative.

They could begin anew.

The thought was heady. Vortex wasn’t inherently broken, he had the potential to be so much better than he was.

All he needed was a second chance.

It was wrong. But so was the spark bond. So was their enforced mutual attraction and the hell of having to lose himself in the pleasure of each interface because the alternative was so much worse.

It would mean wiping Vortex clean and starting again.

First Aid leaned heavily on the platform. Which was worse, he thought, to live with Vortex as he was, a prisoner of the bond and the interrogator’s twisted needs; or to change another person for the sake of himself? To give Vortex this new chance at a decent life because otherwise his own life wouldn’t be worth living?

The memories continued, nibbling constantly at the corners of his mind. The love of Cybertron, nostalgia for a planet First Aid himself had never known – Vortex’s subconscious was full of it.

First Aid couldn’t erase all that.

But he couldn’t allow Vortex to keep the memories of violence, the evidence of his crimes.

First Aid slumped again, drumming his fingers on the surface of the bunk.

Whether then answer came from himself or the bond, he didn’t know, but he was back inside Vortex’s mind in a nanosecond. It took a while to make a copy of Vortex’s databanks; tens of thousands of vorns wouldn’t fit on a datachip, and they barely fit on a crystal. The rotary could have them back, eventually, when he’d learned empathy and remorse, when he’d become aware of the consequence of his actions.

First Aid shuddered, vaguely horrified at the tone of his own thoughts. There was, however, no other option.

He went back to the list. _Restore factory defaults?_ still flashed in the interrogative. He selected it.

_Input medical authorisation alpha twelve._

He selected the appropriate code from a set Ratchet had installed in his databanks before he even came online, and activated the command. He wondered if Onslaught had this weakness, or Swindle.

_Accepted. Consult cautionary file five seven six two point nine before progressing. Confirm command to initiate return to factory default._

First Aid didn’t have that file, but he could imagine what it said. Warnings about memory loss and personality change, about scrapping whatever experience the mech will have accumulated in favour of the easy way out.

It was terrible that he had the ability to do this. He never would have, back in the Golden Age. Then, it had been the choice of the courts, a decision made after all other avenues had proven to be dead ends. Even the highest ranking of surgeons would only have held the codes on a chip, never in their own head.

He sent the authorisation again.

_Disengage and disconnect. Restoration will commence upon isolation._

First Aid withdrew. He packed away his cables, and slotted the data crystal into a compartment on his arm. He felt like smashing it, but he couldn’t. So much of Cybertron’s history was on that crystal, so many wonderful things amid the sordid ephemera of Vortex’s long and violent life.

He refuelled and topped up his fluids. The bond made him jittery. He bore a weak hope that it would be obliterated in the reboot, but he knew it wouldn’t. The restoration of factory defaults would only affect the personality component and databanks; the spark would remain untouched.

A hundred astroseconds passed, then two hundred. First Aid distracted himself with a cloth and a tub of cleansing solution.

Three breems later, Combaticon medbay sparkled, so clean First Aid could see his face reflected in the rows of gleaming, offline repair drones.

Another fifty astroseconds, and the bond told him Vortex was booting up.

Crimson optics flashed on, then flickered as the nodes got used to the light. They brightened, and the shallow vent-cycle of stasis became the deeper, more controlled ventilation of a conscious mech.

Vortex glanced at First Aid, and tried to shrug his shoulders. “Are you with engineering?” he said, and it was the first time First Aid had ever heard the Kaon dialect spoken aloud. “Can I get up?”

First Aid kept his distance. The bond wanted closeness, touch, tessellation. He went behind the nearest table, and took apart a pile of datasheets just so he could put it back together again. “I’m a medic,” he said. He used the same formal Kaon dialect, although he had no idea how his accent sounded. “Not an engineer. You may sit up. Slowly.”

“You’re a civilian?” Vortex got up – not at all slowly – and pointed at First Aid’s insignia. Then he rolled his shoulders, successfully this time, and rattled his rotor blades. He looked around, taking everything in.

“I’m not a civilian,” First Aid replied, and oh scrap why hadn’t he thought this through? This was no place for someone to lay down their first memories.

“You look like one,” Vortex commented. He glanced at his own shoulder, where the Decepticon brand was etched into the metal. “Military, yeah?” he said, then went over to the table and pointed at First Aid’s symbol. “Civilian. You’re…” he paused, and the bond made it clear he was searching his databanks, probing the in-built information for something he could use. “You’re a veteran, then? Quintesson war. Right?”

“Um…” First Aid put the datasheets down. It was effort enough to resist touching Vortex; deciding which truths he was ready for was far harder.

But when he didn’t respond, Vortex commenced checking the guns on his forearms. “These aren’t to spec,” he commented. Then he froze, and First Aid caught a hint of worry, a flash of realisation. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with concern. “My frame’s not right. I’m not new, am I?” he said. “Why have I got ninety thousand vorns on the clock?”

“You suffered a malfunction,” First Aid said, and hoped to Primus that his shame didn’t make it across the bond. “Your original settings have been restored.”

“Oh.” Vortex glanced around again, this time as though looking for something. “Where are we?”

“Earth,” First Aid replied. “You won’t know it.”

 _What kind of malfunction?_ The bond carried the words a moment before Vortex decided not to ask. “What’s my purpose here?”

“We’ll talk about that later.” First Aid picked up a cloth, then put it down again when the movement drew Vortex’s gaze.

“Someone’s coming,” Vortex said, and it was a good few astroseconds before First Aid heard the roar of Blast Off’s engines. “You’re worried. Why are you worried?”

“I’m fine,” First Aid lied. What the scrap had he done? Treaty or no treaty, Onslaught was going to flatten him. “Please get back on the repair platform, I need to run a few tests and upload some information about Earth and its languages.”

“Sure.” Vortex complied immediately. “I like your hands. I think I know your name. You’re First Aid, aren’t you?”

First Aid nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Am I not meant to say that?” Vortex asked. “Can I say things about you, or do I have to keep quiet?”

 _Quiet,_ First Aid thought, _For scrap’s sake, keep quiet._ But that was no way to treat someone so new, so suggestible. “It’s complicated,” he said, and that was hardly any better. “Do you know who you are?”

Vortex nodded. “Course I do.” Then he reached up to his face and felt along the inner side of his helm. His battle mask snapped closed, almost catching his fingers. He opened it again, then closed and opened it a few more times. “Does yours make that sound too? Like it echoes through your head if you shut it quick enough?”

“Sometimes.” First Aid forced himself to step back. Vortex’s energy field was extended, and his friendly curiosity was too much to bear. At least he kept his hands to himself.

“Will I get my memories back?” Vortex asked. He looked up at First Aid, hope and concern and a small hint of something else seeping through the bond.

“Perhaps,” First Aid said, hating himself for every word. “In time.”


	10. Chapter 10

Between the medic’s smooth limbs, and the gleaming flanks of the shelved repair bots, Vortex wasn’t sure where to look first. Everything was fascinating; the window with its thin strip of alien sky, the monitors gently humming by the repair table, the warmth of his spark and the tingle of the hundreds of tiny sensors which lined his rotor blades.

He must have been through this before, ninety thousand vorns ago. He didn’t remember.

“Please try to relax,” First Aid told him.

Vortex smiled up at the medic, and made an effort. It was hard. His spark was restless, his frame jittery. He wanted to touch the smooth metal of First Aid’s face, but the medic didn’t seem keen on physical contact. Even when they were connected for the tests and the data upload, he kept his distance, his body language at odds with the occasional insight granted by his energy field.

Not just his energy field, Vortex thought. His own spark resonated with the medic, full of the echoes of his thoughts and emotions. Nothing was tangible, it was all hints and flickers, a smoke trail that Vortex didn’t know how to read.

Only one thing was clear; First Aid was not happy.

Four others shared the space of his spark. He knew their names and their alt modes; their vital signs showed as a line of text on his HUD as soon as he thought of them. Like the medic, they weren’t in his databanks, only his spark. Not pre-programmed, then, but a remnant of the life his malfunction had cost him.

“We’re combiners,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “Aren’t we?”

“Recalibrate your optics, please,” First Aid said. Then, softly, “Yes, you are. And I am. We’re in different teams.”

That wasn’t right. He made his optics flicker, distracted for a moment by the strobing in his visual field. “Then why are you in my spark?” he said, and regretted it instantly. First Aid flinched. Shame and guilt were written on his face, upset was obvious as a quick flash of insight. “Forget I asked,” Vortex said. “What’s the atmosphere like outside? Can I go flying?”

First Aid shook his head. “Later,” he said. “Maybe.” He sighed. “Do you know what a spark bond is?”

Vortex paused to access his databanks. “Sure,” he said. Then a longer pause, as the implications sank in. “You’re saying we’re bonded?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Vortex tried to catch the medic’s gaze. Was he unhappy because of the malfunction? “Bonded as in pair-based spark-bonded?”

“You were injured,” First Aid said. “You would have died without it.”

Vortex’s smile waned as their sparks momentarily synchronised. The insights came thick and fast. A muddy field on this alien planet, the medic’s hands busy in his chest. The transcendental wonder of the bond as it formed. Then fragments of pain and terror, hints of desperate ecstasy and an overwhelming flood of regret.

Fans roared, the medic was overheating. The insights stopped, and First Aid rubbed his optics. He looked like he was about to cry.

Slowly, and careful not to make any sudden or aggressive movements, Vortex got off the repair table and went over to the medic. He had no idea what he was meant to do, but closeness was required, reassurance. He scoured his databanks, and came up with a host of social rules and taboos, everything he needed to know not to embarrass himself in the company of civilians. But there was nothing about the proper care and treatment of bond mates.

Thankfully, the bond itself gave him a prompt. “We could interface?” he said. “If it’d make you feel better.”

First Aid backed away. “No, we couldn’t.”

“But the bond says…”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate.” First Aid looked up, and his optics were as clear and bright as Earth’s sky.

“Oh, OK,” Vortex said. It was a shame; the medic was highly attractive. Everything about him begged to be touched, adored. But if the medic said it wasn’t appropriate, then it wasn’t appropriate. He retreated to the repair berth. “You got any more tests you need to run?”

“A few,” First Aid responded. He vented slowly, his fans still on high. So unfortunate they couldn’t just interface; Vortex’s pre-installed data indicated that could be a good distraction.

Happily, even without interfacing, distraction wasn’t something they lacked. The medbay door slid open, and another grounder wandered in. Yellow-green paintwork and bright purple optics; Swindle, Vortex’s spark informed him, one of his team mates. He saved the information to hard storage.

“We did it!” Swindle grinned wide, and threw his arms in the air in a gesture that Vortex’s databanks told him meant ‘triumph’. He spoke in one of Earth’s most common languages, and Vortex was grateful for the updates First Aid had given him. Swindle glanced at the medic. “Ons wants to talk to you, and you…” His smile morphed as he turned to Vortex; it became something Vortex didn’t recognise but which sent a thrill to some very interesting places indeed. “I’m sure you’ve got a spare few breems.”

“He doesn’t,” First Aid snapped. “Where do I have to go?”

The thrill vanished as the full extent of the medic’s discomfort became clear. Vortex took up position in front of him, and prepared himself to act should it become necessary.

Swindle shrugged. “War room,” he said, and turned on his heel. “Don’t be long now.”

“What was that about?” Vortex said as soon as Swindle had gone.

“We were at war,” First Aid said. “You were Decepticons, you’re not any more. You’re…” His voice seemed to catch, but the bond registered only determination. “We’re allies now. I’ll explain later, we need to go.”

* * *

On the walk to the war room, First Aid gave Vortex instructions. _Stay close, don’t mention the malfunction, keep quiet_. Vortex complied, obedient as any new-build. He was obviously confused. Disappointed too, but he tried not to show it. Thank Primus the bond was still reintegrating with his major systems; the urge to touch him wasn’t too hard to resist.

When they arrived, Onslaught and Swindle were sat at a table; Brawl and Blast Off were nowhere to be seen.

“You look like scrap,” Onslaught said. When neither of them responded, he continued. “The procedure was a success, I see.” He glanced at Vortex, then back to the heap of datapads between himself and Swindle. “Your reunion with your team will take a little longer than planned.”

First Aid nodded slowly, and tried not to shake. Vortex gave him a curious look, his concern obvious.

“We can’t return you without raising Megatron’s suspicions.” Onslaught selected a datapad, pressed a button, and passed it to Swindle.

“When?” First Aid said, and even that was an effort.

“Three days,” Onslaught said. “Four at the most. Your commanders have been appraised of the… complicated situation involving yourself and Vortex.”

Complicated? “What did you tell them?”

Onslaught’s optics flared. “Only what was necessary. Your status remains unchanged. You are adjunct to this team, although any and all infractions of Cybertronian law will of course be dealt with by your own team leader when you return.”

For a brief and terrible moment First Aid was convinced that Onslaught knew about the factory reset. But the Combaticon commander’s next words made his meaning far clearer.

“Neither of you will face charges regarding any aspect of your fraternisation. Indeed, your Prime should be thankful for your bond.”

“Yeah,” Swindle said. “They weren’t gonna trust us without it. Ons, this one’s scrap.” He waved a datapad. “It’s too old, the plans are obsolete.”

“There’s another somewhere,” Onslaught said. “Find it.” Then, to First Aid, “Your team is, of course, concerned for your welfare. Brawl has been instructed to mind his strength in future.”

As though Brawl was the problem. More than ever, First Aid wanted to purge. Without thinking, he reached for Vortex, and even the glimmer of surprise from the rotary wasn’t enough to stop First Aid from leaning against him.

“Vortex,” Onslaught said, then snapped, “ _Vortex_ , look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“Sir?” Vortex stood to something resembling attention. Onslaught stared, and First Aid’s spark froze.

“See to him.” Onslaught gestured at First Aid. “And get some recharge, both of you. Dismissed.”

* * *

“What did he mean about fraternisation?” Vortex said, but First Aid didn’t reply. His exhaustion was obvious, his unhappiness too. Vortex followed him through the wide, winding corridors not because he didn’t know the way – he could open up a maintenance drone later and copy the schematics – nor because Onslaught had told him to, but because he wanted to. If he focused, he could see how the bond compelled him, how it influenced his thoughts. But the bond was an integral part of himself; he accepted it because he was a Cybertronian, and his databanks told him that was the way things were meant to work.

“Where do we recharge?” he said, and that too was a mistake. First Aid tensed, his shoulders hunching until the servos groaned.

“Separately,” First Aid said.

“Uh-huh,” Vortex replied. “And?” He waited. “Where? Onslaught’s right, you need some rest.”

Mentioning Onslaught was, if anything, even more wrong. First Aid shuddered, a tide of conflicting emotions reaching Vortex through the bond.

“I’m sorry,” Vortex said. “Um… I’m not tired. I can stand guard for you.”

First Aid murmured something Vortex didn’t catch. Then he took a deep vent. “All right,’ he said. “Outside the door.”

* * *

Combaticon HQ was immense. There had to be rooms where First Aid didn’t feel threatened. Somewhere lockable he could recharge while Vortex waited patiently on the other side of a thick layer of steel.

But his feet took him back to the little room opposite medbay. Dizzy and drained, he hadn’t the wherewithal to look for anywhere else.

It took all the energy he had left to resist pulling Vortex through the door and onto the comfortable seat beside him. He couldn’t cross that line. No matter the press of his spike against its cover or the steady ache of his valve.

He collapsed on the cushions, and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

Guard duty wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t exactly scintillating either, but it gave Vortex the opportunity to explore his new experiences, and to focus on learning about his frame. He spun his blades a while, although he managed to resist transforming in the corridor; First Aid was drowsing, on the cusp of recharge, the noise would likely disturb him.

Instead, Vortex cleaned his guns. He followed hardwired instructions, relishing the feel of each small movement. Then he polished his tail rotors, and was amused as a steady warmth spread through his sensor net.

“You bored?” Swindle stepped around the corner and leant against the opposite wall.

“I’m under orders,” Vortex replied. He looked Swindle over. “You find that datapad thingy you were after?”

“Plans for the Nemesis,” Swindle said. “Gonna make the whole place go up in flames.” He shrugged. “Underwater flames, kaboom, whatever. Where’s the medic?”

“Recharge.” Vortex gestured at the door. Swindle frowned.

“And you ain’t in there with him?”

Should he be? He wanted to, but the medic had been clear that it would have been inappropriate. “Uh… no?”

“That bond’s got you good, ain’t it?” Swindle commented. He laughed, and his optics gleamed. His paint gleamed too, in fact he was rather nice to look at, all things considered.

“I don’t suppose you wanna interface?” Vortex said. Swindle’s jaw dropped, and for an astrosecond, Vortex thought that this, too, had been the wrong thing to say.

“Really?” Swindle said.

“Sure. I mean, if you like.”

“ _Really?_ " Swindle repeated. “This ain’t a trick, is it? You ain’t gonna hog tie me and hang me out the window or something?”

That sounded like fun, but the idea of putting some of the knowledge in his databanks to practical use was far more enticing. Vortex grinned. “You wanna spike or shall I?”

* * *

A scuffling woke him up. A bang on the door, muffled moans from the hallway. First Aid rolled off the seat and into a defensive crouch before his databanks could fully synchronise.

“Vortex?” His spark took over; the arousal floored him, the need intense. But there was worry too, and a fierce and violent possessiveness.

“You like that?” Swindle’s voice, muffled and heavy with static.

First Aid leapt at the door. He pawed the control panel, and it flashed green on the third attempt. He stumbled out, his optics struggling to cope in the brighter light.

Swindle had Vortex against the wall, one hand between the rotary’s legs, the other snaking up one of his main blades. First Aid didn’t pause to see what Vortex was doing.

“Stop!” he yelled. “You can’t-”

“Can’t what?” Swindle countered. “Can’t have a frag without being disturbed?”

“You’re taking advantage.” First Aid struggled to find the right explanation. “Leave him alone.”

Swindle gaped. “I’m _what?_ ”

“He’s not,” Vortex said, but it was obvious that Swindle was. Vortex didn’t know what he was doing, or who he was doing it with.

“It’s not appropriate,” First Aid said. He wanted to punch Swindle in his smug, grinning face. “Disengage.”

Vortex sighed, and wiggled out of Swindle’s grip. “Sorry,” he said. His covers slammed shut, and his battle mask too. He wasn’t pleased. “Another time?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Swindle snarled. “Just… Frag you,” he growled at First Aid, and stormed off along the corridor, muttering. “Stupid glitch.”

Vortex groaned, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t know it wasn’t OK.” He kept his mask shut, his optics dim.

“It’s complicated,” First Aid said.

“Yeah, you keep saying that. Frag.” He slumped down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. “You’ve only been offline a joor. Go get some more rest.”

“I can’t leave you out here,” First Aid said.

“You won’t have me in there either,” Vortex said. “Why can’t we be close?”

 _You hurt me,_ First Aid thought. But he’d already got so much wrong. He’d given Vortex his first tastes of bitterness and anger, his first frustration. That wasn’t what he’d wanted. “It’s…” He trailed off.

“Complicated?” Vortex suggested. “Yeah, I thought so.” He sighed again. “I can’t do the right thing if you don’t tell me scrap.”

“I know,” First Aid whispered. “I’m sorry.” If only they were back at Protectobot HQ. He could fix up a bunk for Vortex in medbay. He’d be safe from Swindle there, and First Aid would be safe from everyone.

The proximity warning flashed, unhelpful as ever. Confusing too, urging Vortex to do something he’d been forbidden from attempting. Pushing First Aid to act like Swindle.

“Maybe we could try?” Vortex said. “I’m meant to look out for you. I’ll do whatever you want.”

The frustration ground at them both. The exhaustion too. It was never comfortable to break a defrag cycle so early, and the beginnings of a headache chipped away at First Aid’s circuits.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I…” It was too easy to lay a reassuring hand on Vortex’s shoulder. He steeled himself against the surge of desire. “Just…”

“Just what?” Vortex said. He leant into First Aid’s touch, then raised himself to his feet. “I only asked him ‘cause you weren’t interested. I didn’t know you didn’t want me to.”

“I understand,” First Aid said, and scrap why did Vortex have to be so close. And so full of self-restraint.

In the end, he had to back away. There was no option other than bringing Vortex into the room, and assigning him the seat closest to the door. First Aid huddled in the alcove, the proximity notifications flashing away in time with the heated thrumming of his spark. Vortex sprawled on his front, his rotors gently turning.

“Feels good to be with you,” he said.

“That’s just the bond.” First Aid put his back to the wall, and tried to pretend that he wasn’t imagining laying with his back to the rotary.

“OK,” Vortex responded, but it was obvious he didn’t agree.

* * *

Recharge wasn’t easy. Not with the medic – his bond mate, Vortex supposed – lying in the alcove opposite. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to think of First Aid in that way, but his software certainly approved.

Then again, his software approved of a lot of things he wasn’t meant to do. Interfacing with Swindle, touching First Aid. Just looking at him made Vortex overheat. It wasn’t fair.

But it was kinda fun, in a frustrating way. A hot tingle rippled through his sensor net, clashing nicely with the cool breeze from the building’s ventilation on his rotors. His spike felt good – if sadly unused – and his valve still ached with the feel of Swindle’s fingertips.

He had no chance of getting the medic to touch him like that, but he could fantasise. And that led him to discover another pleasing thing about his frame; it responded to his imagination almost as well as to physical input.

Feeling the charge rise was fun. It tripped his fans a few times, but the noise made First Aid stir, and so he tried to keep his temperature down.

He dangled an arm off the side of his makeshift bunk, and pretended he was close enough to touch his mate. He re-examined his earlier insights, sorting through them for clues about his past life, anything that could show him who he’d been.

Maybe First Aid would tell him more later. There was obviously something happening with Onslaught and Swindle, and the rest of his team in all likelihood. First Aid didn’t like Onslaught, which struck Vortex as strange. He felt similarly about Swindle, and it wasn’t a massive leap of deduction that made Vortex realise that First Aid probably didn’t like him much either.

He sighed, the arousal fading to a persistent background buzz. He didn’t want to be disliked, especially not for things he couldn’t remember doing. He wanted the medic to lay next to him, to feel the warmth of his vents and the tingle of his energy field. But more than that, he wanted the medic to talk to him, to tell him what was wrong so that Vortex could fix it and First Aid could be happy.

Because he obviously wasn’t happy now. He sobbed in his sleep and moved restlessly, his fingers scraping the seat covers. It was painful to watch.

“First Aid?” he whispered. He got no response. The spark bond ordered him closer, prompt after prompt telling him to increase proximity, to allow their energy fields to meet, to establish a connection. The port at his hip itched, but he ignored it. That was inappropriate, and besides, interfacing with someone who wasn’t conscious was taboo, his databanks were clear about that.

“Aid, are you OK?” Slightly louder this time. “Can you hear me?” Scrap, his spark hurt. His energy field blazed, leaving him dizzy, his fans roaring.

Maybe he didn’t have to connect to First Aid to be helpful. The discomfort in his spark worsened, and while a part of him could watch, detached and curious about the new sensation, the rest of him just wanted it to stop.

If he was wrong, well, at least he’d tried. First Aid could correct him when he woke up. And if he was right…

Vortex slunk over to the other seat and stretched out. He lay a tentative hand on First Aid’s shoulder. His bond mate stilled, and their energy fields mingled. The fluctuations of his spark adjusted, finding a rhythm that was half his own and half First Aid’s. Gently, he wrapped an arm around the medic and pulled him close.

First Aid stirred, not fully awake, but his optics booted and he blinked drowsily. Then the light faded again, and he sank back into full recharge.

* * *

There were no words for how wrong this was.

He awoke in Vortex’s arms, thoroughly rested and with his defrag cycle complete. His spark thrummed, his hardware thrilled, and their energy fields merged in a way that should have made him sick. Instead, it made him want to interface.

Thank Primus Vortex was still in recharge. First Aid wiggled around, and checked his panels. Vortex hadn’t touched him. Not in that way. And not for lack of wanting to, that was clear. He’d wanted to very much, and with the open-minded curiosity of any newly built mech.

But he hadn’t.

First Aid’s comm beeped, and the shock made him flinch. Then a heady, sparksick flood of relief hit him as he realised who was calling. He rolled over, cradling his arm. “Blades?” he whispered.

Vortex moaned and reached for him, but didn’t stir.

“Of course it’s me!” Blades cried, and First Aid hastily dialled down the volume. “Who else did you think it would be? Prowl won’t let me come get you.”

“I know,” First Aid replied.

“He’s such an aft. I’m gonna come as soon as I can. I’d do it now, but Hot Spot’s confined me to base.”

“You’re not meant to be calling me either,” First Aid said, and wished that his voice could break, or that something in the way he spoke could indicate the weight of grief and guilt and shame that pressed on his spark. To his own audials, he sounded dangerously calm.

“Screw that.” Blades said. “I want you back, we all do. I wish you’d told me…”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Blades said. “I want you to be _here_ , with us.” He paused, and even without accessing the gestalt bond, First Aid could tell that he was searching for the right words to continue. “If they’ve hurt you,” he said, “I… I don’t know what I’ll do, but Ratchet won’t be able to put ‘em back together again.”

Vortex stretched. “Who’s that?” he asked drowsily, as the spark bond opened and revealed the status of his booting systems.

“What the scrap?” Blades snarled. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes,” First Aid said. “I mean no. It’s not like that…”

Vortex yawned, and stretched again. His rotors clattered. “Is that one of your team?” he asked. “Hey there!”

“Don’t you ‘hey there’ me, you fraggin’ psycho,” Blades yelled. “If you so much as touch him, I’ll-”

“Stop it!” First Aid cried, but Vortex leaned over him, staring at the little hologram hovering above his arm.

“I won’t hurt him,” he said. “I’m looking out for him. I don’t know what happened before yesterday. I had a malfunction, First Aid had to restore my factory defaults.”

“Shhh!” First Aid clamped a hand over Vortex’s mouth, but it was too late.

“You what?” Blades choked a laugh, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “This one of your fragged-up mind games?”

“No?” Vortex’s confusion was obvious. “Aid, I don’t understand…”

“Don’t call him that!” Blades was getting angrier by the astrosecond. “Get away from him!”

First Aid shook his head, and tried to will Vortex not to pay attention. “Blades, please.”

“Is he telling the truth?” Blades said. “Did you… _frag_ , did you _reformat_ him?”

If it was possible to have died of shame, First Aid felt that he would have done exactly that. “Yes,” he whispered.

“ _Frag_.”

“Don’t say anything,” First Aid said. “Please. No-one knows, not yet. It isn’t the time.”

“Why not?” Vortex asked. He was still confused, uneasy, but he remained where he was.

“Quiet,” Blades said. “You don’t deserve him.”

“Please don’t tell him that,” First Aid said, but he knew as soon as the words had left his mouth that it wasn’t only the wrong thing to say, but the worst thing.

“What the scrap is wrong with you?” Blades was aghast. “You got comfortable over there or something? You _want_ to be there?”

“No!” First Aid cried. “Blades, please, I just want to come home. I’ll explain then, I promise.”

Blades sighed, and his anger seemed to fade. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just… I can’t bear the thought that you’re there, with _them_ , and I can’t protect you… I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. I need you.”

“I need you too,” First Aid said.

Vortex squeezed his shoulder. “I could fly you there?”

“Huh?” There was a click as Blades rebooted his comm speakers. “Did he just say what I thought he said?”

“My alt mode _does_ work?” Vortex said. “Doesn’t it?”

“There’s no reason it shouldn’t,” First Aid said. Oh scrap, how he wanted to go home. Vortex would take him, he had no doubts about that. And not in a net, either. In his cargo hold, or suspended below him as Blades would do if he needed to be hoisted to a height.

Onslaught would never allow it. Megatron would find out. The consequences would be disastrous.

“Bring him home,” Blades said.

“Sure,” Vortex said, just as First Aid said, “No.”

“ _No?_ ” Blades was incredulous.

“Not yet. In a few days. I…” First Aid shivered, and Vortex’s engine whined.

“You what?” Blades demanded.

“It’s not the right time. You know why.” Although on reflection, he wasn’t sure Blades _did_. What if Prowl had forbidden Hot Spot from informing his team? What if Blades had no idea that he remained in Combaticon HQ not only because Onslaught willed it, but because Prowl had considered it the most sensible course of action?

But Blades huffed a sigh. “Duty comes first, doesn’t it? No matter what it does to us.”

“It has to,” First Aid said.

“Yeah, I know. Hey, Vortex.”

“Hmm?” Vortex perked up.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Blades huffed. “Make sure nothing bad happens to him, you got me?”

“He’ll be fine,” Vortex replied, and there was nothing in his voice to reveal the sharp possessive flare of his spark, nor the barely suppressed irritation that Blades felt he needed to be told.

“Scrap,” Blades said. “I’ve been sprung. I gotta go. I’ll see you soon, right?”

“Soon,” First Aid agreed, and hoped to Primus that time didn’t add this to his tally of lies.

“Who are your other team mates?” Vortex asked, as soon as the hologram had fizzled out. He leaned half over First Aid, not threatening, just oblivious to any notions of personal space.

First Aid should have asked him to move. He didn’t.

“You’ll meet them,” he said. “When you take me home.” Because Vortex would be coming with him, and for once in his life the rotary would be somewhere caring and good, somewhere his personality could develop in healthy, constructive ways.

“Will I get to train then?” Vortex said. “I think I’m meant to have started already.”

Oh scrap, another thing First Aid hadn’t thought of. Vortex was a production-line military model; designed to be built and trained and housed in batches. His software would have prepared him for it: orns of learning, of augmenting his in-built knowledge with experience alongside other rotaries who were doing exactly the same. He wasn’t meant to be by himself.

“Soon,” First Aid said. “Later today. We’ll find Brawl; he knows where the targets and the ammunition are kept.” Perhaps he could break the news gently, get each Combaticon used to the idea of Vortex’s new operational status before they opened the gestalt bond and found out for themselves.

Presuming they hadn’t already.

“You, um, you didn’t tell Swindle, did you?” First Aid said. “About your settings.”

“No.” Vortex shook his head. “Was I meant to?”

“Not yet.”

Vortex yawned, and his rotor blades quivered. “You know he wasn’t taking advantage, yeah?” he said. “Gestalt bond’s gotta be augmented, even I know that. And I _did_ ask him.”

“I understand,” First Aid said. “But it isn’t the time. Later…”

“You always gonna say that?” Vortex said, and his smile almost masked his dissatisfaction.

First Aid shook his head. Primus, why hadn’t he moved? It was as though the damage of the past week had faded to nothing, and only the slightest touch would be enough to see his panels fly open. And if he didn’t? Vortex would want to interface anyway, spurred on by the bond and by his own innate needs. First Aid would have to guide him in the right direction.

Perhaps Blast Off?

The thought made his valve squeeze, the walls meeting and current flowing in the most inconvenient of directions. If only Vortex wasn’t looming half over him. If only First Aid wasn’t one small movement from violating the line that he really shouldn’t cross.

“Why don’t you want me?” Vortex spoke softly, the light in his visor rippling as his focus shifted from First Aid’s face to his chassis, then back to his optics. As though Vortex knew where he shouldn’t be looking, but couldn’t quite help himself. “What your team mate called me…” his voice grew quieter, his entire frame radiating the desperate need of the spark bond. “You said we used to be enemies. What did I do to make you hate me?”

“I don’t…” First Aid forced himself to stop. He heaved air in through his intakes, and willed the building’s ventilation to cool the room by just another few degrees. “I did,” he said. “You hurt me.” He reached up, impulsive and thoroughly unwise, and rested his palm on the side of Vortex’s helm. “But that’s not who you are now.”

For a while, Vortex didn’t speak, he just stared down into First Aid’s optics. “Enemies hurt each other,” he said eventually. “It’s what they do. We’re not enemies any more though.” He mirrored First Aid’s gesture with a light touch to his cheek. “We could start again. You don’t have to remember. You could delete the files, then neither of us would know. It’d be like it never happened.”

It was only tempting because Vortex wanted it so much. Wanted _him_ so much, First Aid corrected himself; the rotary didn’t know what he was asking.

“That wouldn’t work,” First Aid said. “I need… I need to remember.”

“But I don’t?” Vortex pulled away, and slumped on his front. “I hate being broken. You should have bonded me to Swindle.”

First Aid sighed. He recognised it for the reactive barb that it was, and forced himself to sit up and shuffle back so that Vortex’s rotors were out of arm’s reach. It was too late now. If Swindle had been there, then perhaps. And maybe it would have helped mend the rift in the team. But it was useless to think of what could have been, he had to focus on what was.

Which left him the problem of where to direct Vortex’s inquisitive attention. He couldn’t let Swindle near him, not after what he’d witnessed between the two of them. Perhaps Brawl or Blast Off? His spark rebelled; neither were gentle, and if there was anything Vortex needed less than the scrap First Aid was putting him through, it was rough handling on the part of his team. First Aid couldn’t allow him to be used.

“Frag,” Vortex grumbled. “I’m sorry, OK? I don’t wanna get you torqued.”

“I’m sorry too,” First Aid said, but his voice was drowned by the hiss of the PA.

“Combaticons!” Onslaught’s voice, painfully loud. “Report immediately to training ground beta. Repeat, report to training ground beta. Vortex, bring the Autobot.”

* * *

Vortex had no idea where he was going, and no time to hack a maintenance drone as he’d planned. Instead, he followed his spark. The gestalt bond gave him the locations, speeds and trajectories of his individual team mates; it wasn’t hard to work out where they were going.

Despite his evident dislike of Onslaught, First Aid followed without protest. He covered his fear quite well, and his fans hummed low as his processors clocked. The bond didn’t show what he was thinking, but Vortex supposed it must be to do with his malfunction, and explaining it to his team.

His train of thought progressed no further, however, because the door in front of them opened and the immensity of Earth’s sky spread out above his head.

His jaw dropped, his pace slowed. He flicked his rotors, getting used to the breeze, the temperature, the humidity. The subtle differences between inside and outside were augmented by how big everything was, how open. He tested the wind speed and direction, calculated the lift required to get him airborne in alt mode.

“Get your afts over here!” Onslaught yelled.

“We need to hurry.” First Aid tugged his elbow, his fingers catching on Vortex’s tail rotors. The input almost made his processors crash.

The training ground was hemmed in by a high rock wall, and the equally high metal slope of a fabricated structure. The sun glinted from wide strips of glass, like the windows in medbay, and the air was alive with unfamiliar sounds and odours.

Vortex identified his team, taking in their relative positions and whether or not they looked at his bond mate. Blast Off leant against a rock, giving the appearance of boredom; Brawl and Swindle bickered quietly in the lee of the cliff.

“Glad you could join us,” Onslaught said, and something in his tone made First Aid flinch. “Swindle, Brawl, prepare the targets. Medic, do you remember what I said to you about the gestalt?”

Vortex risked raking the very ends of his tail rotors across First Aid’s arm, as the medic spoke.

“Y-yes, yes I do,” he said. First Aid pressed close, too close. The scent of him was intoxicating, warm motor oil and cleansing fluid, and his energy field tingled all along Vortex’s side.

“I don’t think you do,” Onslaught snarled, and each word saw his voice rise. “If you did, you wouldn’t have made yourself an obstacle to the proper functioning of this team, would you?”

“I…” First Aid coughed the static from his vocaliser, but didn’t have the chance to try again. Onslaught loomed over the both of them, and Vortex hadn’t the slightest clue if he was meant to obey his commander or protect his bond mate. Mixed signals emerged from his spark, from the gestalt bond and the pair bond, he and could find no way to reconcile them.

Onslaught’s engine cancelled out every one of Earth’s background noises. “You will _never_ , _NEVER_ prevent any member of this team from interfacing with any other, do you understand me?”

First Aid nodded fast, but didn’t seem capable of forming a response.

“Do. You. _Understand?_ ” Onslaught repeated.

“He gets it,” Vortex said. “Sir.”

Onslaught glared. “And you’ll stop letting him try to turn you into an Autobot. Have I made myself clear?”

He hadn’t, but Vortex answered in the affirmative. It seemed the response least likely to cause further offence.

“Good.” Onslaught continued to stare, then he huffed, and glanced over at Brawl and Swindle. A row of targets glinted against a far rock wall. “First Aid,” Onslaught said. “Observe, record, analyse. If you suspect any glitch at all, I want to know about it.” Then he backed off a pace and raised his voice. “Combaticons, transform and combine!”


	11. Chapter 11

In the shadow of Bruticus, nothing seemed certain. The ground shook with each footstep, the sun flashed in and out of view; the air shivered with the recoil of each blast of his gun.

Onslaught’s weapon, it must have been. First Aid never had understood why a sonic stun gun had ‘stun’ in the title. As he watched Bruticus train, ‘obliterator’ presented itself as a more appropriate word.

He focused on the gestalt’s movements; the slow lift of his arm, the deliberate placement of his foot. Bruticus knew his own strength, his limitations. Ponderous and immense, he was never quick, just terrifyingly effective.

Insights slipped through the spark bond. Mirror-shards of thought, fragments of commands from the central hub to the outlying components. It was impossible to disentangle Vortex from the others, and First Aid didn’t even try. Instead, he tried to focus on his task, and not to think about Onslaught, or the reformatting, or the things the other Combaticons would learn simply by virtue of being combined with Vortex.

Bruticus was a gestalt in conflict. His limbs were uneasy with each other; his centre struggled to exert control it really didn’t have. There was little cohesion, and what cooperation existed was fragile and temporary.

No wonder he spoke so slowly; his thoughts were glacial, impeded by the hundreds of other tasks his processors were devoted to simply to keep him together.

Newly combined, he’d looked down at First Aid and intoned a single phrase, “You will watch.” Then he’d stared in confusion for a moment before rounding on the target.

First Aid had backed himself against a boulder. Shielded from shrapnel by a heap of large rocks, it wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was oddly peaceful.

All that ended when the power required to keep Bruticus together exceeded the combined reserves of his five components.

Onslaught exploded from the mess of fragmentation. There wasn’t time to think, let alone react. The Combaticon commander smashed into First Aid, a hand around his jaw, slamming him against the boulder.

“What have you done to him?” Onslaught boomed, and shook First Aid until he rattled. “Explain yourself! _Now!_ ”

“I…” First Aid grabbed Onslaught’s wrist, tried to loosen his grip. Metal groaned, his face mask bending and linkages straining in his neck. “I didn’t…”

“You _did_ ,” Onslaught growled. He grabbed one of First Aid’s arms and squeezed until the plating dented. “Tell me.”

The words wouldn’t come. First Aid struggled, his vision sparking white and grey, his armour crawling. Where was Vortex? He couldn’t see past Onslaught’s immense bulk, couldn’t think past the memory of Blast Off’s cargo bay floor, the pain and the violation.

“ _Speak!_ ” Onslaught shook him again. “What have you done to my interrogator?”

“Ons…” Swindle’s voice, close and cautious. “Boss, we made a deal, remember. We slag him, the deal’s off.”

“No!” Brawl yelled, just as Blast Off’s engines fired and the sparkbond resonated with helpless frustrated confusion. Vortex snarled and swore, straining against one of them. First Aid couldn’t tell who.

“C’mon, boss,” Swindle urged. “We’ll get it out of him, just not like this.”

Onslaught’s engine roared, and Swindle fell silent. He pressed closer until all First Aid could see was the fierce orange blaze of his visor. “ _Explain_.”

“He had to!” Vortex snapped, before First Aid could get his thoughts in order. “I suffered a malfunction, sir.” He must have struggled, because a clang sounded and Brawl yelped, and suddenly his voice was a lot closer. “Commander, please, let him go.”

“Had to _what?_ ” Onslaught growled.

“Restore my factory defaults, sir.”

“He what?” Swindle whispered.

“He was trying to fix me,” Vortex said, and First Aid wished the boulder would open up and swallow him.

“Really.” Onslaught didn’t sound as though he believed it. “Describe the nature of your malfunction.”

“I…” Vortex went quiet. When he spoke again, his voice and the spark bond were loaded with uncertainty. “I don’t know, sir, he didn’t say.”

Onslaught glared into First Aid’s optics, so close, and to his shame all First Aid could do was hang onto Onslaught’s arm and try to relieve some of the pressure on his face and neck. Then Onslaught lifted him higher and threw him across the crater floor.

The ground hit his helm, his shoulder. His internals jarred, and his vision spun. He tumbled, finally rolling to a stop at Blast Off’s feet.

Through the ringing of his audials, he heard Onslaught’s barked commands. “Confine him to medbay. Vortex, come with me.”

* * *

“Don’t even think about it,” Brawl said, but he didn’t grab Vortex by the rotor hub this time. Instead, he clutched the side of his face, where Vortex’s fist had crumpled fully half of his battle mask.

Vortex couldn’t decide where to look, not least what to do. First Aid groaned, shakily heaving himself from the floor. Onslaught strode away, expecting compliance without question, consummate obedience just as Vortex’s programming dictated.

The spark bond complained. First Aid needed him. But Onslaught was his commander. He shouldn't disobey a direct order, it was even more of a taboo than interfacing with someone who wasn’t conscious.

“Stop gawking and go,” Swindle hissed. “Now.”

Blast Off huffed in apparent displeasure, and hauled First Aid to his feet. He shot Vortex a furious look. “You have your instruction, soldier,” he snapped. “Go.”

Onslaught neared the door to the closest building; he wasn’t about to look back.

Vortex ran to catch up.

Onslaught paused a moment before letting them both in, but he didn’t speak. The silence was excruciating. Vortex probed the gestalt bond, but even with his side of it open his team mates all kept theirs firmly closed and he could glean nothing more in-depth than their basic operational status and relative locations.

It had been going so well. His bond mate had talked to him, he hadn’t messed up his first combination, even Onslaught yelling hadn’t been so bad. Then it had all fallen apart.

“In here,” Onslaught said, and gestured at a door. For a moment, Vortex wondered whether he was being locked up for having hit Brawl, but the room was nothing like any of the stock images of cells stored in his databanks.

“Sit,” Onslaught pointed at a chair. Vortex complied. He looked around while Onslaught settled in another, larger chair on the opposite side of a wide desk. The material appeared to be organic, dark brown, flora of some kind. The room was large, with other seats, a computer console, a skylight with coloured glass, and the largest window Vortex had thus far seen.

“Pay attention,” Onslaught said. He didn’t seem angry any more, but he gave the impression that could change at any moment. “What exactly do you remember?”

Vortex sat bolt upright and tried to put his thoughts in a coherent order. “Nothing before the reformat, sir,” he said. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“I’m the one asking the questions,” Onslaught said. “What did the medic tell you?”

“Not much,” Vortex replied. He hoped First Aid was all right. Blast Off was a civilian, like Swindle, judging by their absence of brands; he’d look after the medic, surely. Vortex tried to access the spark bond to check, but he couldn’t quite figure out how.

“Specifics,” Onslaught prompted.

Oh yeah, that. Vortex attempted to focus. “He said we’re bonded ‘cause I’d be dead without it. He said I suffered a malfunction. He had to take me back to factory defaults.”

“You were able to combine,” Onslaught prompted.

Vortex shrugged, his rotors clattering either side of the chair. “It’s in the spark,” he said. “It just kinda happened.”

Onslaught nodded. “Did he tell you about the war?”

“He said we’d been at war, but we were allies now,” Vortex replied. It was cruel how many questions kept popping up in his mind, but each time he had to dismiss them because Onslaught was the one doing the asking.

Onslaught sighed. “Autobots have no foresight,” he said. “We’ve been at war almost as long as you and I have been in existence.”

“With the Quintessons?” Vortex ventured.

“With each other,” Onslaught said. “A ridiculous abuse of Cybertron’s resources.”

“Oh.” Vortex shifted his right arm so the ends of his tail rotors brushed against the chair back. A warning flashed up in his HUD. He ignored it; the sensation was soothing. “Why aren’t we on Cybertron?”

“The enemy holds Cybertron,” Onslaught said. “Or what’s left of it.”

What was left? But that wasn’t right. “Then why are we here, why aren’t we-”

Onslaught cut him off. “State your purpose,” he said.

“Huh?”

Onslaught leaned forwards, elbows on the desk and fingers steepled beneath his mask. “State. Your. Purpose.”

“I was built for the defence of Cybertron,” Vortex replied.

“And?” Onslaught prompted.

“And what?”

“What _is_ Cybertron?”

“The alt mode of Primus-in-stasis,” Vortex said, the words spilling directly from his databanks. “Subdued and modified by the Quintessons, made into-”

“No,” Onslaught said, with a finality that stilled all further thought. “Were you built to defend the frame of a dead god?”

“Um…”

“Cybertron isn’t just the corpse of Primus,” Onslaught said. “You were built to defend our civilisation, our cities and culture; not just Cybertron but Cybertronians. _That_ is your purpose, and it doesn’t matter what filthy organic planet you find yourself on.”

Vortex let the information integrate. It made sense, and stirred something in his programming, diverting power to his weapons and bringing his alt mode relays online.

“Stand down,” Onslaught said. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to fight. For now, I need you to listen.”

* * *

“That was stupid,” Blast Off commented. It was the first thing he’d said since ordering Vortex to follow Onslaught. He grabbed a cube, and filled it with coolant from the dispenser. “ _Very_ stupid.”

“I know,” First Aid said. His head hurt and his spark ached. His interface hardware ran alternately hot and cold, and his face stung where Onslaught’s fist had driven his mask into the side of his mouth. But all of that paled to nothing when compared with the thought that Vortex was now with Onslaught, being subjected to Primus knew what.

“Then why did you do it?” Blast Off said. He didn’t sound angry, just different enough from his usual state of bored indifference to serve as a warning.

First Aid shook his head and leaned on a worktable. “You know what he was like,” he said.

“That’s no excuse.” Blast Off downed the coolant, and snapped his mask back in place. “Vorns of experience, gone. His expertise negated. You’ve compromised this entire operation, do you realise that?”

“He’s still a capable fighter,” First Aid protested. “He can still combine.”

“He doesn’t know us!” Blast Off retorted, and the growl of his engines was the first real sign of his irritation. “You’ve erased everything.”

“I kept a copy!” First Aid buried his face in his hands. “All those memories of Cybertron, I…”

A tiny click, then a sharp buzz of static. “Blast Off to Onslaught. I repeat, Blast Off to Onslaught. Pick up, you obstinate-”

“What is it?” Onslaught replied, and First Aid wished he’d never spoken.

“The Autobot kept a backup, he can restore everything.”

“I can’t!” First Aid turned so fast his stool tilted. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?” Onslaught demanded.

“There’s so much, it’ll take time… Reintegration.” First Aid fought to construct a coherent sentence. He looked up at Blast Off. “When Starscream rebuilt you, how long was it before you could access your databanks?”

“A while,” Blast Off said. “But we could still fight.”

“He’ll start now,” Onslaught said. “Blast Off, remain there. You’re not to leave the medic alone with him.”

“It doesn’t work like that!” First Aid clutched his head. “It’s not… You weren’t reformatted, you were in stasis. It’ll take him longer, he’ll need help.”

“He doesn’t need your help,” Onslaught said. “How much longer?”

“Could be days,” First Aid said. “Could be up to a quartex. And that’s if there aren’t complications. Which there could be. Don’t do this to him.” _Or to me_ , he thought. Vortex hadn’t been his new self long enough, he needed the time, the distance from the cruelty and evil of his old life before he could even think about confronting it.

Onslaught rumbled his disapproval. “Be glad we have an agreement, Autobot. I should have your life for this.”

“He ought to,” Blast Off said, after ending the comm.

“I didn’t want this,” First Aid replied. He grabbed a cloth, and began to wipe down his hands. Dust had settled on the benches, they’d need to be cleaned before he could begin his repairs. And after that, the maintenance drones were probably due a service.

“I should kill you myself,” Blast Off commented. He dragged a seat to the door and punched a code into the control panel for the lock. “Your arrogance is matched only by your lack of foresight. You’re a liability.”

First Aid winced, but didn’t respond. What was the point?

* * *

“Was he telling the truth?” Onslaught asked.

Vortex fidgeted in his chair. He’d been here too long. He should go back to his bond mate, try to make things right. Perhaps try to internalise everything Onslaught had told him, about Megatron and the Prime, about the fall of Cybertron, the Detention Centre and their enslavement and betrayal. Surely Blast Off would let them talk, even if he wouldn’t let them be alone.

“Yes,” he said, eventually. It was a lie. He didn’t know, the spark bond was uncontrollable. “He doesn’t like lying,” he added, in case the insight would help.

“He lied to you,” Onslaught said.

“He hasn’t,” Vortex said. “He wouldn’t.”

Onslaught shook his head. “There was no malfunction.”

Vortex’s rotors stilled. “What?”

“He didn’t like the way you were,” Onslaught said. “You weren’t compatible with his moral paradigms. So he changed you.”

Vortex wanted to object, it couldn’t be true. But he’d hurt First Aid, the medic had told him. And they used to be enemies.

Onslaught pressed a button on the comm panel on his desk. “Brawl, my office, now.”

“I only punched him cause he grabbed me, sir,” Vortex said, but his mind wasn’t on Brawl. “Was I any good?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You said I was an interrogator.” _His_ interrogator, Vortex remembered. “Was I any good?”

Onslaught seemed to deflate a little, or perhaps he just relaxed. “Yes,” he said. “You were.”

Vortex gave this a moment’s thought before he responded. “I want my mods back.” Then added, “sir,” as soon as he thought of it.

“That’s not possible,” Onslaught said.

“But Aid said he kept a backup, I heard him over your comm-”

Onslaught held up a hand for silence. “You didn’t have any mods. You trained with the Mayhems. Everything is in the copy of your databanks.”

“Which I can’t have yet,” Vortex finished for him.

“Which you may have as soon as we are at liberty to grant you the time needed for reintegration.”

“I can reintegrate and fight!” Vortex protested, but Onslaught shook his head.

“Your in-built abilities will suffice for now.” He pressed another button on his desk and his office door opened. Brawl leaned on the jamb; the dents in his battle mask very clearly marked the pattern left by Vortex’s fist. “Go with Brawl,” Onslaught said. “Spend some time at the shooting range. Dismissed.”

* * *

Blast Off stood, and kicked the chair away.

“You’re going?” First Aid tried to be relieved.

“Vortex is otherwise occupied,” Blast Off said. “Don’t hack the door, Onslaught will know.”

The shuttle left, and the lock flashed red behind him. First Aid sighed. He’d failed again. Vortex was in the company of Combaticons, at the mercy of goodness knew what negative influences. He’d take it all in, as new-builds did, assimilating everything, learning from everyone.

Such a narrow pool. First Aid wished he’d come back. They could talk; First Aid would sit him down and explain everything. The war, their presence on Earth, the spark bond and why it was so difficult to manage.

He pushed the repair drone away. His hands were dirty again, clogged with grease and metal shavings. He cleaned them, thinking of the things that Vortex should be learning, and how much easier it would be if they were back at Protectobot HQ.

At least Vortex was easy to locate. The spark bond opened easily. The dying sun shone through a haze of atmospheric pollutants, casting a rich ruddy glow over a section of sandy ground First Aid recognised as the shooting range. Vortex fired from his integrated weapons, learning to calibrate himself, to adjust for wind speed and the viscosity of the air. Brawl crouched in his peripheral vision, shooting from his cannon. Every so often a shot went wide and Brawl swore; Vortex laughed.

If he noticed First Aid checking on him, he gave no sign.

 _Come back,_ First Aid thought, but the spark bond wasn’t a comm link, and it wouldn’t have been wise to open a channel.

He should have retreated from the bond as well, but he didn’t. He cleaned off his hands, and continued to watch. More than watch, to feel, to experience the sun on his armour, to know each tantalising thrill as his tail rotors caught on just about everything.

First Aid sighed again, and retreated to the small supply closet. It wasn’t any safer than the rest of medbay, but it was more secluded. He didn’t allow himself to look at the shelf Vortex had sat him on to spike him the previous day, and instead closed the door and hunched in the corner on the floor.

The shelf intruded at the edge of his field of vision. He turned to face the wall. The evil Vortex was gone, and it was for the best. What place would there be for him on a Cybertron without war?

The old Vortex had been the worst of what the Decepticons had to offer. The new one, however, was pure potential.

He would have to be re-trained, but he was sure to be suited to something. With hindsight, First Aid should have checked to see what augmentations came as standard with his military software. There had to be something unrelated to war, something his programmers had given him in case he survived his military service and earnt citizenship and a civilian life.

But First Aid hadn’t asked. He made a note to as soon as the occasion arose, and the thought quickly turned to hope that the occasion would arise soon.

On the shooting range, Vortex learnt to deal with the changing light. He coped with Brawl’s good-natured teasing each time he missed a shot, and accepted the warm glow of satisfaction when his bullets shredded the target.

On a whim, he transformed – his first attempt without Onslaught’s command to give him impetus – and Brawl cursed as dust whirled in the rotor wash.

He didn’t crash; why would he? His ability to fly was as intrinsic as his ability to shoot. He hovered low, and Brawl leapt at him, clinging to his landing wheels. The tank’s grip held out for a handful of astroseconds, before he clattered to the ground, and Vortex spiralled up into the sky.

First Aid should have been there.

He considered going to the window, but someone would see on the security feed and assume he was trying to escape. He switched his optics off, the better to immerse himself in Vortex’s experience.

* * *

Shooting went well. Brawl was fun, and bore Vortex no ill will about the dents in his mask. The tank didn’t hold grudges. He had trouble holding on to landing gear too, and more trouble holding onto the ground when Vortex decided to try out the special ability that came with his particular kind of rotor array.

“Frag you!” Brawl yelled, but he was laughing as the whirlwind spun him around.

Flying was wonderful. It helped dull the ache in his spark, and filled his every part with a hot fizz of current that didn’t fade even when he landed and reverted back to robot mode.

For a moment, he wondered which of the many long windows belonged to medbay, then he snapped himself out of it. First Aid didn’t want him, not really. He shouldn’t want First Aid.

“I’m slagged!” Brawl staggered over and clapped Vortex on the arm. “Let’s drink!”

“You’re not bothered?” Vortex said. “Y’know, about…” He gestured at his own head.

“You’re a crazy glitch,” Brawl said. “You always been a crazy glitch, you’re always gonna be a crazy glitch. And if you gimme half a breem to break into Swindle’s stash, you’re gonna be a drunk crazy glitch.”

“Won’t Swindle be angry?”

Brawl snickered. “Only if we don’t save him any.”

Breaking into Swindle’s stash took a bit longer than half a breem. Standing guard was entertaining, and a little thrilling. But it was nowhere near as nice as the scent that hit Vortex’s olfactory receptors as soon as Brawl got the door open.

“Oh yeah.” Vortex took a good, deep vent. “I want me some of that. Where _is_ Swindle?”

“With Ons,” Brawl replied. He passed Vortex a couple of cubes. “Wish he wasn’t. He was meant to be gettin’ me a new squishy to look after the tigers, but they gotta fix Ons’s plan.”

“Squishy?” Vortex said. “What’s a tiger?”

“Squishies are humans,” Brawl replied, sounding for once like an authority. “They’re like… thinky organics. Tigers are better.” He relocked Swindle’s closet, and picked up his own small stash of cubes. “I gotta get a new keeper ‘cause Thrusters stood on the last one.” He paused only long enough for his own mind to catch up. “Thrusters is Blast Off. He hates it, but you wouldn’t stop callin’ him it and it kinda stuck.”

“I wouldn’t?”

Brawl brought them up short, then peered into the next corridor. He looked both ways before ushering Vortex through. “Sure,” he continued, just as loud as before. “Like I say, you’re a crazy glitch.”

Another few turns brought them to what Vortex assumed was Brawl’s room. As large as it was cluttered, it was the antithesis to Onslaught’s neatly ordered office. Brawl swept a table clear with one elbow and put down his pile of cubes.

“All right,” he said. He peeled the seal from the first cube. “You’re gonna sit right there, and you’re gonna drink this. Scrap’s from Monacus, best grade this side of… The other side of Cybertron. Goes down like a greased Skuxoid.”

“At least I know what a Skuxoid is,” Vortex said. He grinned, and reached for the cube.

Brawl held it back. “You gotta let it rest on your glossa first. Give it a good astrosecond before you swallow. OK?”

“Sure, OK!” The fumes sent his sensor net into overdrive. His fuel lines constricted, and his tank felt suddenly empty. “Just gimme!”

That first taste was the best thing he had ever put in his mouth. Not that he had much to compare it with, but _Primus_ it was good. The fumes expanded to fill his intakes, fogging his vents and making him sigh in abject happiness.

“Good?” Brawl collapsed on the seat beside him, and took a deep drink from his own cube.

“Uhuh,” Vortex said. One astrosecond on the glossa wasn’t quite enough. He took a second sip, and let it linger.

“You ain’t gonna know,” Brawl said, “but the first time we ever went drinkin’, you put a dent in my face then too.”

“Mmm?” Vortex didn’t dare speak in case the high grade rolled off. He flicked his rotors, hoping for Brawl to get the hint and try touching them.

“That was a good night,” Brawl said. “Fragged if I can remember why, but it was good.”

Vortex swallowed, his glossa tingling. “Why’d I hit you?”

“Went after the same femme.” Brawl grinned and downed some more. “Drink up, you look like you’re gonna make it last all night.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Vortex held onto his expression of perplexed innocence for about two astroseconds before laughing. “Tell me about Cybertron,” he said. “I wanna know scrap.”

“What kinda scrap?” Brawl asked.

“Everything,” Vortex said. “Anything. How did we meet?”

“Hey, I got that one!” Brawl said. He threw back the rest of his cube, and motioned for Vortex to do the same, then he fetched them both a second. He fumbled single-handed at his hip, and threw across the end of his interface cable. “Plug me in and I’ll show you.”

Oh scrap yes! The gestalt bond certainly approved, even if the spark bond carried a shadow of discontent. He dismissed the latter, and focused on the former. First Aid didn’t want him, and he didn’t want to think about First Aid not wanting him. So he wouldn’t.

It took a moment for Vortex to locate the controls, but he managed to get the cover off his panel, and pushed the connector in. A dozen different subroutines activated at once; he couldn’t follow them all, but he could follow the bloom of pleasant heat they prompted, and the warm approval that he was plugged into a member of his own team.

“Incoming!” Brawl announced, and Vortex followed the prompting of his databanks to take his optics offline and enjoy the show.

* * *

This couldn’t be happening, not with Brawl. First Aid tried to pull himself out of the spark bond, but each time he came back to himself in that dingy little closet at the rear of Combaticon medbay was one time too many.

He wanted Vortex. He _needed_ him. He wanted closeness, safety, the warm comfort of the previous night, waking up with the rotary curled around him.

They weren’t his own desires, but he couldn’t honestly say that they only belonged to the spark bond. Not any more.

It altered his code, and made him more susceptive to certain patterns of thought. It got his databanks too, taking his memories and distorting them.

Every positive thought went straight to hard storage, and the negative memories were pushed to the side. The worst elements faded to the background, and it took a concerted effort for him to bring them back. The forced overloads became simply overloads; the cruel gentleness was a tender affection. He remembered Monacus. Bringing himself down onto Vortex’s spike, face against the rotary’s throat, but his declaration of hatred rang hollow, and his valve squeezed in on itself, an agony of short circuits.

In Brawl’s company, Vortex grew steadily more inebriated. They flitted from memory to memory, but the spark bond failed to transmit the details, just the effects on Vortex’s physical frame. Then Brawl accidentally-on-purpose knocked himself against a rotor, and Vortex giddily asked him to do it again.

First Aid whined, and it was almost a sob. That should have been him. Vortex was his responsibility. It shouldn’t have been Brawl unravelling his interface cable. It shouldn’t have been Brawl indelicately shoving his connector into the first empty port on his panel. It shouldn’t have been Brawl grasping his rotors and making him laugh and gasp and squirm.

First Aid tore himself from the bond. The sensations followed, but they were the regular insights. His own arousal peaked, and his spike freed itself with no say-so from him.

He turned to the wall and covered his face. His spike wouldn’t retract, and the charge crawled everywhere. Minor warnings began to flash, not only from the spark bond but from his core personality. His spike burned.

First Aid slid onto his back, and gently probed the entrance of his valve. Still damaged, but _scrap_ he wanted to be filled. The sensors sang at the touch of his own fingertips; the metal was so slick. He smeared the lubricant over his spike, and tried to summon an image of his dream lover, the imaginary mech from a time before Vortex, when the spark bond was new and he hadn’t fully realised the extent of his mistake.

As with the last time he'd tried to conjure the fantasy, his dream lover failed to materialise.

Instead, the bond gave him Vortex, new and inexperienced. In need of instruction, and so very eager. Vortex lying beside him on the soft, comfortable seat, just holding him for as long as he needed to be held. No pressure, no demands.

His overload hit him by surprise, hastened by the charge and the frustration. He resisted progressing to his valve; he had to learn self control. With the spark bond eroding his shame, and cancelling his fear and his hate as it had the pain of forced entry, he had to hold onto something that was genuinely his.

* * *

Vortex vented hard. The overload slammed through him, erupting from his interface port and making his every last component hum. He slumped, his rotors sinking into the bunk, and a grin on his face like he’d never had before.

And that was just with cables. His spike tried to pressurise, his valve tingled. Beside him, Brawl groaned happily and reached for the high grade.

“The dents’ll bash out,” Brawl commented. Vortex didn’t care. Every mark and break and imperfection gave him a set of new and very interesting sensations. Sure, a few of them hurt, but it was a small price to pay for so much enjoyment.

“You could put in a few more,” Vortex suggested. He rolled over and fondled the end of his cable where it slotted into Brawl’s port. “I got all this pre-installed scrap about how getting fragged in the valve is meant to be _really_ good.”

“It’s what valves are for,” Brawl said. “Fragging.” He tilted the cube and swallowed the dregs without spilling more than a drop over his face. Vortex lurched up and caught the spillage with his glossa.

“You wanna spike me?”

“Sure,” Brawl said. “Later. I promised Swin he’d get to spike you first.”

“How much later?” The pleasant buzz of overload was fading, and the thrum in Vortex’s equipment was getting ever more urgent.

“ _Later_.” Brawl yawned. “He’s gotta work on that scrap with Ons, remember.”

“Ugh.” Later wasn’t convenient. And neither was the yawn. Brawl’s drowsiness spread along the cable, making Vortex yawn too.

“Hey!” Brawl cried, but his voice lacked its usual force. “Why you disconnectin’ us.”

“I gotta go do something,” Vortex said. He stood, and rolled his cable away. The floor swayed a little, but his databanks told him buildings sometimes transformed. He could fly, therefore he could cope with moving buildings. “I’ll be back later.”

“Don’t you go runnin’ to Thrusters.” Brawl yawned again. “I promised Swin, remember?”

“Sure!” Vortex called, but he was already out of the door.

How he made it to medbay, he had no idea. Knowledge from Brawl, perhaps, something useful transmitted before the tank started petting his rotors and it all got a little hazy and more than a little pleasurable.

The door was locked. But that was OK, he had the code, didn’t he? Or _a_ code. This was Combaticon HQ and he was a Combaticon, he should be able to go anywhere he pleased.

He punched in the first random collection of numbers he thought of. The lock beeped, but nothing happened. He tried the second, then the third. An alarm began to sound, so he stepped back and shot it. That killed the lock _and_ the alarm. He grinned and forced his way in.

First Aid was in the closet, awake, but only just. He looked up as Vortex opened the door.

“Hey,” Vortex said. The floor moved, so he leant against the door jamb.

“You’re inebriated,” First Aid said.

Vortex shrugged and grinned. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

First Aid’s optics flickered, and he looked up. “You’ve what?”

“I know you didn’t like who I was, so you changed me, and you still don’t really like me, and I can’t do scrap about it. But we got this really strong energon that tastes like the best thing ever, and you don’t recharge well by yourself.”

“We?” First Aid said, but he already knew. The spark bond opened, urging them closer, begging them to touch.

“You don’t like my team,” Vortex said. “But I do. And you don’t like me, but they like me. I don’t see the problem. And you should come drink with us.”

“I don’t… I don’t dislike you.” First Aid rubbed his visor. “You should go back to them, I’m restricted to medbay.”

“You don’t want me to,” Vortex commented. “Come with me, c’mon, you’re ruining the rescue part of this.”

“Ons… Your commander will be angry.”

“He’ll be angry tomorrow,” Vortex pointed out. “It ain’t tomorrow yet.” Something occurred to him, and he dropped to his knees. “He didn’t hit you too hard, did he?” He reached out, trying to encourage First Aid to turn his face to the light without breaking the rules and touching him.

“I repaired the damage,” First Aid said, and although his mask appeared pristine, and there wasn’t a dent that Vortex could see, the statement registered as a lie.

“I don’t have to go back,” Vortex said. “I can stay here.”

“It’s hardly comfortable.”

“Stop putting slag in the way!” Vortex huffed, then sighed and got a bit of control over the volume of his voice. “I wanna be with you. Frag knows why, but I do. And I think this is all gonna be so much easier if you just do what the software’s tellin’ you to do.”

“The wisdom of the inebriated?” First Aid said, and it almost sounded like a joke. He hauled himself to his feet. “You aren’t going to give up, are you?”

“No. Can I carry you?”

“No.”

“It’s a long walk back.”

“I’m not going back.” First Aid stared at the floor as he walked past. 

Vortex wanted to block his way, and make some kind of gesture that couldn’t be ignored. But he didn’t. 

“I just want to recharge," First Aid said. "And on a proper recharge platform, not a seat that’s going to give us crooked cables.”

That wasn’t a bad sign. Vortex fell into step behind him. The view was good, even under the glare of the hallway lights, and with the floor periodically swaying.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Your room,” First Aid said quietly. “Through here. It’s not suitable for you any more, but it’ll do for now.”

Vortex wasn’t sure what exactly was unsuitable about it. There was no skylight, sure, and after seeing Onslaught’s office he kinda wanted one of those. But there were seats and a comfortable-looking recharge platform, and a collection of objects on shelves and tables that hinted at a life interrupted. He must have put them there, before the reformatting.

First Aid locked the door, then stood by the keypad, looking uncertain. “Um… Perhaps you should look at those later?” he said.

Vortex shrugged and tried out the recharge platform. It was as comfortable as it looked, although he wasn’t too sure why there were cuffs hanging from one end.

“Those are, um, Swindle’s?” First Aid said.

“Yeah, and I’m a grounder,” Vortex replied. His databanks were vague on the erotic uses of restraints, but his imagination did a good job filling in the gaps. “You gonna come over here or what?”

His bond mate got closer, but didn’t settle. “What happened to you?” First Aid reached for Vortex’s bent rotor blade, stopping just short of touching it. “Did…”

Vortex yawned. “Brawl happened. It was fun.”

“I should fix you.”

“Later,” Vortex said. “We already got outta med bay. This is a rescue, remember? Be rescued.” He patted the surface of the bunk, then stretched out and made his blades flick. Rotors were popular, according to Brawl, maybe it would help.

“I just want to recharge,” First Aid said, and hit the lights.

“So you keep saying.” Vortex yawned again, and waited, still and patient, while First Aid finally settled beside him.

* * *

If there was a worse way to compound the wrongness of his situation, First Aid was pretty sure he’d find it in the next few joors.

He couldn’t recharge. He was tired, he needed to defrag, but as he lay on the bunk with Vortex only a short distance away, the command that suspended conscious thought eluded him. Primus knew, he shouldn’t have left medbay. Onslaught would be furious. But he had Vortex back, and he had to make the most of that before the Combaticons could mould him into what they wanted him to be.

“You should at least try to get some rest,” he said to Vortex. The rotary yawned, drawing cooling air through his vents, and shuffled closer.

“I’m resting,” Vortex said. “My rotors are sore is all.” A soft twang sounded as he ruffled them.

“You didn’t want me to repair you,” First Aid pointed out. It was clear what he did want though, and clearer still that although he was capable of hinting, he wasn’t actually going to do anything about it himself.

“I do,” Vortex said. “Just not yet. You’re all tired and scrap, and I know why Ons hit you, but he shouldn't have. Are you OK?”

No, a million times no, but how would saying it help? “What did he tell you?”

Vortex propped himself on his elbow, shuffling his blades so they wouldn’t catch on the bunk. “We talked about Cybertron,” he said. “He told me about the war. How long have we been bonded?”

“Less than half a quartex,” First Aid said.

“And I’ve had the gestalt bond for what, about a quarter of a vorn?”

“About that.” First Aid tensed as Vortex nudged him gently on the shoulder.

“Thanks for saving my life.”

“Even though I took it away again?” They really shouldn’t have been touching. Their energy fields mingled, the catalyst for a new bloom of heat. First Aid stayed facedown, head resting on his arms, and tried not to move. Any friction on his pelvic armour could be disastrous.

“But I can have it back,” Vortex said. “All you gotta do is install the backup. Ons says you can when this scrap’s over and we got time for me to integrate, or something.” He kept his hand where it was. “What was I like before?”

“I can’t answer that,” First Aid said. “You should ask Brawl.”

“He said I was a crazy glitch and I’m still a crazy glitch.”

“You’re not crazy.” Although he _was_ pushing his luck. First Aid knew he ought to move away, but the contact was soothing. “You weren’t… pleasant, before.”

“Am I better now?”

His hope made First Aid’s spark ache. Of course he was better now, but that didn’t make the reprogramming any less abhorrent. “I was trying to help you,” First Aid said. “And I was trying to help myself. I’m… I’m not sorry I did it, but I know that it was wrong.”

“I don’t understand,” Vortex said. He shuffled closer still and rested his chin on First Aid’s shoulder. “Onslaught told me there was no malfunction. He said you did it because you didn’t like me how I was. But that doesn’t make sense. Why would you bother?”

“Because of the spark bond,” First Aid said. The heat beneath his armour was beginning to get uncomfortable, but he couldn’t move. Not with Vortex so close, and so much in need to reassurance and guidance. First Aid owed him the truth; even if it hurt him now, the benefits to his long term development would be so much better than if he was left to figure it out for himself.

He met the red glow of the rotary’s visor. “Who you were before, that person wasn’t well. He was cruel and violent, far beyond anything one would expect from a military model.”

“But you didn’t let me die,” Vortex said.

They were back to that conversation again, but this time First Aid thought he had a chance of actually being heard. “I believe that everyone deserves a second chance.” He paused a moment, stopping his fans from coming online, trying to will his vents to draw deeper.

“So this is my second chance?” Vortex asked. “How do you want me to be?”

“That’s not my decision to make.” First Aid tried not to writhe. Vortex wanted so much to please him, responding to the imperative of the spark bond over anything in his personality component.

“It sure ain’t mine,” Vortex said. “I turned out wrong the first time, who says I won’t turn out wrong again?”

“You won’t,” First Aid said with a certainty that came straight from his core programming. “I’d like you to come back home with me, when I’m at liberty to leave.”

“What about my team? Will I still see them?”

“And train with them,” First Aid said. He tried not to let his disapproval filter through the bond. “You’ll be able to come and go as you please.”

“I’ll just stay with you?” Vortex said. He shifted, a rotor tip coming to rest on First Aid’s forearm. “Is that it?”

“With me and my team,” First Aid said. “It’ll be good for you. Especially while your memories are re-integrating.”

“So,” Vortex said, and his disappointment was an off note in the hum of their sparks. “Am I going with you as your patient, or as your bond mate?”

Oh scrap. The thought came back to him that if there was any way to make this situation worse, First Aid would find it, and soon. “What the spark bond does to us,” he began, he had to make the effort. “It does it against our will. It’s changing us.”

“Ain’t that what life does?” Vortex said, and for a moment he was terrifyingly like his old self. Then his tone softened, and he continued. “If you don’t want our bond, I’ll... I won’t like it, but I’ll try to understand. But you got a chance here, and I’m not just sayin’ this ‘cause Brawl gave me all that energon. We could make something really good out of this.”

“How do you _know?_ ” First Aid said. The blade that touched his arm was the one carrying the marks of Brawl’s fingers.

“It’s worth a try, right?”

First Aid tensed against the flood of arousal. He couldn’t give in to this. But he couldn't reject Vortex again, not when he was so vulnerable. There’d been enough bitterness and anger, and enough violence too. First Aid could be gentle, nurturing, everything Vortex needed at this crucial stage in his new life. And if he thought of it like that, it didn’t seem quite so selfish.

He drew back his mask. “You do know it’s the bond making you want this,” he said.

“And?” Vortex countered, as though it didn’t matter. “I don’t give a scrap where it comes from. It’s not like we can detach our sparks.”

He fell silent as First Aid leaned closer and pressed their lips very gently together. It was a bad idea, but scrap it felt so right.

“Does that mean…?” Vortex whispered.

First Aid kissed him again, careful not to let their helms scrape, and even more careful to keep his spike cover closed.

“Oh wow…” Vortex had no technique, he probably didn’t even have precedent for this in his databanks. But he was eager and pleased, and he allowed First Aid to guide him without once attempting to take control.

First Aid didn’t know what Brawl had done, but the dents showed that it had been rough, and it probably hadn’t lasted long. First Aid doubted it would have involved kissing, and he’d have been surprised if it had involved anything sweet and tender and caring at all.

Vortex needed this to be sweet and tender and caring. He needed First Aid’s hands coasting along his rotor blades; he needed to be shown exactly where to touch and how much pressure to use. He needed the closeness and reassurance, the soaring temperature and the roar of their fans.

Most of all, he needed to be accepted for who he was now, his touch allowed, his presence welcomed.

All of it was wrong, but First Aid wasn't about to stop. Worse, although he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t quite remember why. Vortex had hurt him – the old Vortex – but the specific memories just wouldn’t open. He should be unhappy, repulsed, but the spark bond took him over, as much of an aphrodisiac and opiate as it had been before Vortex’s reformatting.

It wasn’t long before the focus needed to keep his panels shut became too much. He rolled onto his back, and Vortex covered him.

“What do you want me to do?” Vortex whispered. His optics blazed almost too bright for comfort, and he stroked the length of First Aid’s chassis.

There was only one right answer. “What would you like to do?”

“Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all until January. I have a lot to do to prepare for Christmas, so I'm putting this fic on hiatus until the new year. I'm just a little burnt out after eleven consecutive weeks of writing and posting, and I need my weekends back for a while.
> 
> As for the AU elements, for me sparks come with the concepts of Primus and/or an Allspark, so this had to have one of those. But I wanted Quintessons in the worldbuilding, because I love those creepy tentacled bastards. So that's where that came from.
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic so far, and there's something you'd like to see come up, drop me a comment or a PM either here, or on LJ or DW. I don't promise to include everything (and I have a mechpreg squick liek woah, so please don't suggest that), but if something catches my fancy I'll write it in. :)


	12. Chapter 12

Vortex couldn’t believe his luck. His bond mate _did_ want him. All that prevarication, all the uncertainty and self-denial, it wasn’t because First Aid hated him, but because circumstances had conspired to make him unhappy. Because, perhaps, he felt guilty about attempting to remould his partner into something more suited to himself.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing in the whole of this alien world that mattered as much as connection, closeness, interface.

It would fix everything, Vortex was sure of it.

The charge raced through him, and his sensor net glowed. He stroked his bond mate’s thighs, enjoyed the smooth planes and the firm, certain angles. He inhaled the scent of ozone, and bent again to take another taste of the medic’s lips.

So many options, and he wanted to try them all. His partner’s spike gleamed, slick and ready; his valve dilated at the first, tentative push of Vortex’s fingertips. First Aid moaned and squirmed, his legs parting in obvious invitation.

Fourteen of the nodes were burnt out; the information came as a flash of insight. Vortex wondered about the cause, but his curiosity was swiftly obliterated by the charge. Need surged, a deep and thrumming ache that Vortex’s pre-installed data hadn’t prepared him for. His covers retracted and his spike came free. Pressurisation made him gasp, and when the medic wrapped his hand around the tip, Vortex felt he couldn’t last any longer.

They waited a while, playing that teasing erotic game with their mouths, until the charge had dipped to an acceptable level, and the ‘overload imminent’ warnings had ceased to flash.

When his spike made contact with the rim of his bond mate’s valve, the rush robbed the air from his vents. First Aid tugged him closer, and gasped as he pushed a little way in. The valve rippled, and tiny pulses of current lit hot new pathways as nodes fired and circuits blazed to life.

It was so much better than Vortex’s databanks had said it would be.

“Hold me tight,” First Aid said, and his voice dissolved in a haze of static. He bucked, allowing Vortex to slide an arm beneath his waist. Vortex should have removed his guns, but there was no time for that now. He held fast to his mate, and eased himself deeper.

Amazing how the valve moved around him, how the parts conspired to draw him in while also squeezing him in all the right places. They fit together perfectly, and when he thrust, the nodes fired in time with his pace, and their energy fields morphed to adopt exactly the same pattern.

His software approved, and _how_. It was bliss: the rising charge, the heat, the soft noises made by his bond mate, the sighs and groans and urgent murmurs of approval.

It couldn’t last for long, but that was fine because their overload was stunning. And there would be more, there had to be. Now that First Aid had abandoned his excuses.

Vortex pressed his lips to the medic’s visor, then his cheeks, his nose, his mouth. He didn’t need to ask if First Aid was happier now, the answer was in his spark. Instead, he asked a question that the spark bond hadn’t already answered. “Do you want to rest, or do you want to try something else?”

* * *

Two joors into his recharge cycle, something nudged First Aid’s arm.

He stirred, slow and aching.

Vortex lay wrapped around him. The spark bond told him that he welcomed it, that he was warm and protected and that everything was just fine.

Everything wasn’t fine. Something had touched his arm. Something that wasn’t Vortex.

Slowly, he brought his optics online.

There was someone else in the room. Someone familiar. Someone the spark bond told him was not a threat.

He couldn’t trust it.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

Purple light bored into him. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re out of medbay,” Blast Off said. He turned away, heading for the shelves. “You shouldn’t be here.”

First Aid cringed. “Why are _you_ here?”

“Collecting a few things,” Blast Off replied. “ _My_ things. Be glad I have no use for him in his current… state, or I’d be taking him too.”

The bitterness was shocking, and the implication was wholly unpleasant. “He’s not yours,” First Aid said quietly. “He’s not anyone’s. He needs to make his own choices.”

Blast Off huffed. “Hypocrite,” he said, loud enough to cause Vortex to stir. He snatched a final few items from the shelves, small things First Aid couldn’t clearly see, and left without a further word.

“Was that Thrusters?” Vortex asked, without bringing his optics online.

First Aid tensed. “Where did you learn to call him that?”

Vortex stretched. “Brawl,” he said, drawing air through his vents in a loud yawn. He huffed it out in a sneeze. “Dusty. What did he want?”

“To fetch a few things,” First Aid replied.

“Uhuh?” Vortex didn’t sound particularly interested. He wrapped his arms again around First Aid. “I still gotta defrag; we got time?”

“Yes,” First Aid replied. Unless Blast Off summoned Onslaught. But First Aid didn’t think that he would, what with the trouble between the two of them. He settled again, and tried not to worry what personal vendetta Blast Off might now have against him.

* * *

Whatever vendetta Blast Off had, it was quickly forgotten in the face of Onslaught’s cold fury.

First Aid tried not to cower. He’d expected violence, swift and brutal. Not sneering words from Swindle, as Brawl took Vortex away for training. And certainly not the quick escort to the pinnacle of the tallest building, and to Onslaught’s office.

Swindle hadn’t gone in, but had shoved Aid through the door, and slammed it behind him.

“You disobeyed me,” Onslaught said. He spoke softly, his posture tense and his optics ablaze.

First Aid stared at the floor; what could he say to that?

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Still quiet, still measured. Onslaught cultivated his rage.

It was an effort to look up, and when he did First Aid found himself focusing on everything but the Combaticon: an immense oak desk, supported by bands of wrought iron and fitted with a flat-screen computer console flush to the top; a multi-coloured skylight, scattering a dissonant rainbow in a pattern First Aid thought he should recognise, but couldn’t remember the name of; a vast, curving window onto the rim of the crater and the desert plateau First Aid could never reach alone. There was one chair, and Onslaught was sitting on it. The floor was painted ceramic under a thick layer of plas-glass, presumably so that Onslaught’s heavy feet wouldn’t crack the tiles.

“Who is commander here?” Onslaught asked, and First Aid tried not to shiver. What the spark bond had effectively distanced him from, proximity to Onslaught brought back, and with a swift intensity that made his processors heat and his equilibrium glitch. He took a stumbling step to steady himself, and Onslaught snarled.

“ _Who_ ,” he repeated, “is commander here?”

“You,” First Aid whispered. His joints creaked, as every servo in his frame prepared him to run.

“And who gives the orders?” Onslaught said.

“Y-you do,” First Aid replied.

“’You do’, _what_?” Onslaught prompted.

Oh scrap, First Aid didn’t know if he could do it. Without Vortex to steady him, without the hated manipulations of the spark bond to spare him the indignity of his memories, he had trouble enough saying anything, let alone what Onslaught wanted to hear. But Onslaught chose that moment to rise from his chair, and First Aid spat out the words, “You do, commander.”

“Come here,” Onslaught said, lowering himself back into the chair. He gestured to the floor just beside him, behind the desk. “ _Now_.”

 _Oh no, please Primus no,_ but how could Onslaught force him again? He needed the treaty, he wanted this alliance.

“Please…” When First Aid spoke, he could barely hear himself over the roar of his fans. “Hurting me won’t get you anywhere.”

“Move!” Onslaught snapped. “ _Now_ , or I truly _will_ hurt you.”

“N-no,” First Aid stammered. He took a step back, then another.

“I’ve had enough of this.” Onslaught stood.

First Aid bolted for the door. He slammed into it shoulder first, fumbling to get his fingers into the gap, to haul it open. But it was locked, and Onslaught was fast, seizing him by the wrists, hauling his arms up behind his back. A knee between his thighs, a muzzle at the back of his neck.

“You won’t accept my authority,” Onslaught growled into his audial. “You disregard my orders, you _destroy my interrogator_ …” He lifted First Aid easily, as though his struggles were nothing. “You have no humility.” He threw the medic face down on the desk and pinned him there; the desk groaned and little flakes of polish wormed under First Aid’s mask. “It’s about time you learnt some. Put your feet on the floor.”

First Aid struggled to gain his balance, to get some leverage, but Onslaught pressed him hard against the iron-banded oak. A bloom of pressure shaded to pain as Onslaught roughly shoved his legs apart and forced his feet flat to the floor.

Onslaught snarled, his energy field seething with hatred and aggression. “Open your covers.”

First Aid froze. A phantom pain speared his valve, the burnt-out sensors all screaming at once. His armour crawled, immersed in tactile memory, while his mind spun. He couldn’t do it, Onslaught would hurt him; how could he possibly hide it from Vortex?

Onslaught groped between his legs, pressing hard. “This is a lesson,” he said. “For your benefit. Now _open them_.”

Still, First Aid resisted. His optics focused, unbidden, on the grain of the wood, the cracked and scratched layer of varnish. There were metal joists beneath the oak; he could hear them creaking.

Onslaught pressed harder. The valve cover bowed, and First Aid choked a sob.

“Do as I say,” Onslaught hissed, “or you won’t have a cover to close when this is over.”

The thought of it being over was like something impossible, a dream or a glimpse into an alternate reality. The moment was all that existed; the pain, the humiliation.

Onslaught dug harder, and metal screeched. His fingers would leave tracks in the paint, First Aid thought, Vortex would notice, he’d react.

“Don’t.” First Aid spoke softly, one final plea. He made his frame go limp, let the desk take some of his weight.

“ _Open_ ,” Onslaught said, and this time the metal began to buckle. First Aid yelped, and snapped the covers back before they could be broken.

He cringed, waiting for the first touch, invasion, pain, violation. He was dry; it would hurt. He didn’t know how long he could hold it back from the spark bond.

Onslaught huffed, and released his arms. “Now come around, stand here.” He gestured at the same spot as earlier, the empty space beside his chair. “Hands on the desk,” he said. “Straighten your legs.”

Dizzily, First Aid complied. Onslaught put a hand on his abdomen, adjusting the angle of his aft. Then the same for his arms, his shoulders, his head, arranging him.

“Now stay there,” Onslaught said, and sat down again.

First Aid didn’t understand. A breeze caught the sensors on the rim of his valve. Too cold. It emphasised how exposed he was, how vulnerable.

Onslaught booted the computer console, and gave every indication of settling down to work. If it wasn’t for the hard buzz of his energy field where Onslaught’s elbow almost touched First Aid’s hand, First Aid would never have been able to tell that the Combaticon’s anger hadn’t just evaporated.

Another gust from the air conditioning. It hit the tip of First Aid’s spike, and made it retreat further into its housing.

“Don't fidget,” Onslaught said. “Remain still.”

First Aid wanted to run. But the door was locked, and there was nowhere for him to go.

The waiting was terrible. Every time Onslaught moved, Aid expected him to rise and un-sheath his spike. Every time his vocaliser spat a little static, Aid expected an order to get on his knees, or worse.

But Onslaught didn’t touch him.

After a while, the confusion and the fear were joined by a deep and spark-felt shame. It was degrading, a negation of his status as a thinking, feeling person, and made worse by the fact that Onslaught was ignoring him. It was ridiculous, he should be relieved, but he wasn’t, and it burned. He began to get angry with himself, to tell himself that he should have fought harder, run faster. Maybe the door was only jammed. Maybe Onslaught would have given up if only he’d held out long enough.

Maybe Onslaught would have left him alone if he hadn’t tried to fix Vortex.

The guilt was as cruel a weight as the humiliation, and the persistent and abhorrent notion that he couldn’t bring himself to defy Onslaught again. Not now.

The door-lock buzzed. “Enter,” Onslaught said, and First Aid glared hard at the tabletop. _Not now, please,_ but the door opened nonetheless. Onslaught sniffed. “I was expecting Brawl.”

“He’s still on the range with Tex,” Swindle said. He approached the desk slowly, nothing more than a moving yellow blur in First Aid’s peripheral vision. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“ _He_ is learning an important lesson about obedience,” Onslaught stated. “Did you find the files?”

“Sure did,” Swindle said. He pushed a datapad across the desk. “Tex keeps dropping hints, he wants the medic back.”

“Send him up,” Onslaught said. When Swindle huffed, his commander leaned forward. “Unless you have a use for… _this_ first?”

“I might,” Swindle said.

“Autobot, remain still.”

He knew he should disobey; Swindle would see his stillness as a sign that Onslaught had beaten him. But regardless how hard it was to remain still, it was even harder for him to dare risk the consequences of moving, let alone of trying to run or fight back.

Swindle patted his bowed head, condescension in the buzz of his energy field. And arousal too, dangerous and so very unwelcome. Swindle moved behind him, and his intakes hitched. Then to his side, but so much closer, scrutinising. “He isn’t enjoying this,” he commented. “Think of the treaty-”

“This is _for_ the treaty,” Onslaught snapped. “He will learn to obey me, or we will _all_ suffer.”

Swindle shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He drew closer still, and First Aid fought not to cringe. “The humans have a phrase,” he said, and it was obvious he was no longer talking to Onslaught. “An eye for an eye. What you stole from us… We should take it out of you.” Fingers on the back of his knee, rising to his thigh; Swindle’s energy field crackled. “How would you like that? Wiped clean of everything, you get to start again. Don’t know your team, don’t know that crazy slagger who convinced you to bond with him. Don’t even know what planet you’re on.”

“I didn’t mean,” First Aid began, but Swindle spoke over him.

“Shut the frag up,” he snarled. “You might as well have killed him.”

“Are you done?” Onslaught said, but he didn’t wait for a reply. “Take the Autobot next door and stay with him. Re-route the security feed from my office to the large console, and make sure that he watches.”

“Will do, commander,” Swindle said.

“And Autobot, you will replace your covers.”

* * *

“You wanted me, sir?” Vortex stood to attention. Actual attention. He was grimy and soot streaked, and his left foot looked as though it had been sandblasted. Onslaught could see the base metal, but the rotary showed no signs of discomfort. Good.

“You disobeyed me last night.”

“Ah, that.” Vortex looked at his sandblasted foot, then back up with a hopeful gleam in his optics. “Brawl had this high grade-”

“Indeed,” Onslaught interrupted. “Sit.” He’d brought in a second chair, lower than his own. A swivel chair, and it obviously took an effort of will for Vortex not to spin around on it.

“Sorry, sir,” Vortex said.

“Don’t lie to me,” Onslaught said. “Tell me why you disregarded my orders and took the Autobot from medbay.”

Vortex appeared to give this some consideration, but Onslaught knew to follow the subtle gleam in his visor, and not the apparent direction of his gaze. His optics were everywhere, taking things in, and Onslaught could almost hear his processors clocking away.

Eventually, he spoke. “I wanted to make things right.”

“And are things… right?” Onslaught asked.

Vortex shrugged. “I hope so.”

“You should _know_ ,” Onslaught told him. He rounded the desk, leaving the barest gap between them. “Unless you do, and you just aren’t willing to tell me.”

“It’s not like that,” Vortex began, but a quick touch of his closest rotor blade stole the words from his mouth.

“There can be no secrets between combiners,” Onslaught lied. The old Vortex had kept his secrets; all of them had. But the medic was a danger. Ignorance of the extent of his manipulations could be disastrous. Onslaught laid a hand on Vortex’s shoulder, his palm overlapping the military insignia. “In three Earth days, we move against the enemy. We must be cohesive.”

Vortex’s expression was painful to watch. Hope and trepidation, innocent to a degree. A capable fighter from his first astrosecond, but far from the mech Onslaught had known and worked with for vorn after vorn. The mech he’d been captured and tried alongside, whose humour and passions had been obliterated with the reformatting. It made little difference that the medic had saved his memories; that was no guarantee that reintegration would bring the old Vortex back.

It was worse than getting locked away.

“We have to know each other,” Onslaught said.

“Intimately?” Vortex suggested, with a wicked smile that was almost, but not quite, his own. He stood, his tail rotors dinging lightly against the flanges on Onslaught’s pelvic armour.

“We have to _understand_ one another.” Onslaught met the curious red glare with a steady scrutiny. “You need to obey me, not just when it suits you, not just when it feels like the right thing to do, but _always_.”

“Then let me have him,” Vortex responded. “I’m bonded to him.”

“You’re bonded to us,” Onslaught said. “Bend over.”

A moment’s hesitation, but Vortex complied, and scrap he was just as incapable as he’d ever been of keeping still. His rotors bounced and clattered, his aft swayed in an enticing way that Onslaught was certain by now must be hardwired into his personality component. If Onslaught suspended his disbelief, he could almost think that this was _his_ Vortex, his interrogator. Not the empty vessel he’d become.

‘Pass me your cable,” Onslaught said. “And lower your firewalls.”

* * *

First Aid didn’t want to watch. But Swindle had his orders, and Swindle had a gun.

 _You wouldn’t use it_ , First Aid thought, although he wasn’t sure. And maybe it’d be better if he did. Pain was only temporary, damage could be repaired. But sitting here, watching this, it seared deeper than any shot from Swindle’s gun.

On screen Onslaught whispered something to Vortex, and they connected. Then Onslaught began to touch him, a slow exploration that echoed through the spark bond and make First Aid’s spike thwack against the inside of its cover. His valve began to lubricate, and he squirmed in his seat. The cover was bent, closed, but no longer air-tight. Another humiliation to add to the list.

He regretted telling Vortex his plans. Onslaught would read his memories, sift through the small amount of data the rotary had so far been able to compile, and learn that First Aid aimed to take Vortex back home. It wouldn’t matter that Aid also planned for him to have contact with his team, Onslaught would never allow him to be taken away.

“You want him?” Swindle sneered. He lounged against the console, gun on First Aid. When he got no response, his purple optics narrowed. “What’s the matter?” he said. “You stuck on ‘mute’?”

“I don’t know,” First Aid began, but Swindle silenced him with a wave of the pistol.

“You don’t know frag all,” Swindle said. “Can’t make up your mind, can you? You don’t want him, then you do. You make him stand outside while you’re rechargin’, then you burst in on us like some fraggin’ Wrecker on a mission to save him from something _he_ asked for. You’re glitched.”

First Aid remained quiet. On the monitor, Onslaught swiftly progressed from a possessive, harsh touch, to a slow and forceful spiking. Vortex’s rotors bounced, and his moans were audible through the wall.

“Ain’t gonna stop that, are you?” Swindle said. “Can’t run in and save him from himself.”

“I don’t want any… any adverse effect to your team dynamic,” First Aid said, but it was a lie, and Swindle could tell.

“You hate us,” Swindle said. “You’ve always hated us. Before Tex fell in lust with you, before Ons decided you’d come over all submissive with a good hard frag. You’re poison to this team.”

First Aid shook his head, unable to tear his optics from Onslaught pushing deep inside of his… his partner? “You’re poison to yourselves,” he said softly, and flinched as Swindle swung the butt of the gun at his face. It clipped his helm, but there was no dodging Swindle’s hand around his throat.

“He was mine,” Swindle snarled. “Spark and frame. He belonged to me.”

“He hated you,” First Aid croaked, and couldn’t help but think of Blast Off’s words, his claim. Did they all think they owned Vortex? First Aid went limp. No point in active resistance, but his stillness, his forced calm, _that_ got Swindle’s attention. “He _loathed_ you,” he whispered. “You sold him.”

Swindle’s engine sputtered, and his grip increased. “This, from his little fragtoy? He only wanted you to break you.” Swindle threw him down and backed off. “You frag this up for us,” he said, “and you frag it up for your own side too. And if you do frag this up, if you do _anything_ to screw over this alliance, it’s gonna be my pleasure to watch Onslaught crush your pathetic, thieving spark.”

First Aid rubbed his throat, encouraging pipes and cables to revert to their normal shape. He had no words for Swindle.

“So you’re gonna be quiet,” Swindle said. “And you’re gonna be happy, ain’t ya? And when your commander asks what the mean ol’ convicts did to you, you’re gonna lie like it’s your primary function.”

First Aid summoned the tatters of his defiance. “Or?”

“Or they’ll know,” Swindle said. “How do you think your team’s gonna feel when they find out who’s been between your legs? They’ll never look at you the same. Or when they open their mail in the morning to find a little video of a certain medic sandwiched between two Combaticons, and carryin’ on like he’s loving every astrosecond?”

“You didn’t…”

“Course I did,” Swindle grinned. “When they see you grabbin’ onto his rotors like you do, and you’re all laid out on the shuttle, you truly think they’re gonna believe you didn’t stay here just to screw him? Awww, don’t look like that. All Ons and I want is for you to start actin’ like an ally, not some prissy Autofreak with control issues who’s gonna sabotage everything.”

It was too much to take in. “I’m not trying to sabotage anything!”

“Could’a fooled me,” Swindle said brightly. His grin widened, and his optics gleamed. “Let’s make a deal.” He holstered the gun, and glanced at the screen where Onslaught bent over Vortex, thrusting slow and deep. “You behave yourself, and you can have the video. All copies, even the one in my databanks.” He tapped his helm. “I’ll even let you make a scan so you know for sure.”

“Behave myself?”

“Do right by us, that’s all. Be a good little medic.” Swindle sighed. “And you might want to portion off a bit of your memory, just so you don’t accidentally go sharin’ things you don’t mean to next time you combine.”

“Next… time?”

Swindle sighed again, and turned back to the screen. “Shut up and watch.”

* * *

Vortex dug great gouges in the preserved organic surface of the tabletop. He made another adjustment to the circumference of his valve, squeezing Onslaught’s spike and drawing another long and shuddering moan from his commander.

It wasn’t meant to be this easy. His databanks advised caution, a good few breems of preparation before the first slow insertion. It could be dangerous, he knew, if they weren’t compatible. And even if they were it could take a while to adjust to the sensation, to perceive it as pleasurable rather than odd.

Vortex experienced none of that. Must have been his frame; it was used to this kind of treatment, even if his mind was not. And Onslaught was _good_. Vortex’s commander knew just the places to touch. He knew how to make the lubricant flow and the nodes sing. He knew which angle to thrust and how long before he had to pause to drag out the pleasure and hold them both back from climax.

And while Onslaught slowly fragged him, the connection between them hummed. Images of Cybertron flashed through his mind; neon-bright cityscapes under a star-speckled sky; a display of tetra jets, whirling in a complex pattern of tangled loops; a dance of shuttles and satellites; the planet from orbit, the data-grid glittering with Iacon at its hub. Things Onslaught wanted him to know. Things they had lost.

Things they could regain, with Megatron’s defeat, the re-conquest of Cybertron. Dreams of a new world order, tactics and strategies, all of Onslaught’s and Swindle’s planning laid out for Vortex to see and appreciate. If only he had the focus for it, but the charge rocketed, his armour so hot he thought his wires might melt. He perceived Onslaught’s genius, but the rest was lost to him.

The connection was reciprocal. Vortex allowed Onslaught free reign. His interface with Brawl; his passion for his bond-mate; the promise made on his behalf to Swindle that had now been broken. But Swindle wouldn’t mind, Onslaught told him, Swindle knew what was best for the team.

Vortex kept nothing back. Not the conversation with Blades, not even First Aid’s explanations, their private talks.

The more Onslaught understood, the more he’d realise that they should never be separated again.

* * *

“This is scrap.” Blades paced; each footfall jolted his rotors and reverberated through the floor. “They _abducted_ him. How can Prime even think about a treaty?”

“Consider it from Prowl’s point of view,” Streetwise said, but Groove interrupted.

“We’ll get him back, isn’t that the most important thing? Only a few days now.”

Hot Spot bent over the control console, performing his round of routine checks. Blades could pace and rant and vent all he liked; an outlet was healthy, and it kept the rotary where Hot Spot could see him. He wasn’t as worried about Streetwise and Groove. Streetwise would never countermand a direct order, and Groove was grounded enough to see the wisdom in Prime’s and Prowl’s decision, even if he didn’t like. Besides, they couldn’t fly, so they couldn’t get to the Combaticon base. Blades, however, could, and would given half a chance.

“I want him back _now_ ,” Blades growled. “Not tomorrow, not next fraggin’ week. _Now_.” His hands clenched, and his denta squeaked as they ground together.

“Aid wouldn’t want you doing that,” Groove said gently. “Please try to relax.”

“He wouldn’t wanna be stuck in a base full of psychos either!” Blades’ pacing brought him to the wall, but he didn’t turn on his heel. He vented hard, looking for all the world like he was about to try punching the metal.

“Don’t make me call Ratchet,” Hot Spot said. “Groove, I need you to check the basement and ground floor ventilation system, I think there’s something caught in one of the ducts. Streetwise, could you assist?”

“I’m not gonna start a fight,” Blades said, as soon as the door closed behind them. “Just please, let me go get him. Skyfire can drop me from low orbit. I’ll be quick and quiet. Soundwave’ll never catch on.”

“You know that’s not true,” Hot Spot said.

“He doesn’t belong there. He’s scared!’ Blades raised his arm, the cables so tense that he shook. The he spun away from the wall without hitting it. “Frag!”

“I’m sorry,” Hot Spot said. “I really am.”

“I know,” Blades said. “Sometimes I wish you had just one ounce of insubordination in your frame. Just one.”

Hot Spot sighed, and turned away from the console. “So do I,” he said. “Would you like to train? Hand-to-hand in the yard, hit the release on some of that pent up energy.”

Blades huffed. “No.” His fists clenched. “Maybe. I’d rather just go get him.”

“We can’t risk the Decepticons finding out,” Hot Spot replied. “You know that. If it wasn’t for that, there’s no force in this universe could hold me back.”

“If you knew,” Blades said, then covered himself so quick his words ran together. “We don’t know if they’re treating him right. When have they ever stood by a promise?”

“If I knew what?” Hot Spot said.

Blades turned away, shoulders hunched and his rotors flaring like bristles.

“Blades… Is there something you need to tell me?”

A sigh, then a gruff, “If there was, I’d have told you already.” But Blades was an open book, even without the gestalt bond. Hot Spot went over to him. No touching; he didn’t even reach out. He just stood a short distance away and waited.

“Are you sure,” he said quietly.

Blades’ optics flared, panic in his energy field. He looked at Hot Spot over his arm, and a little of his defensive tension eased. “Yesterday, when you sprung me trying to comm Aid… I wasn’t about to call him. I already had.”

Hot Spot slowly nodded. “I thought as much,’ he said. “How was he?”

“He was with… with _him_. He… We need to get them out of there, both of them.”

“Both?” Hot Spot shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Him and the glitch. That’s all I can tell you,” Blades said. “I promised. Aid gets to tell you first.” He flared his rotors again. “Don’t make me break my word.”

“What happened?” Hot Spot said. “Is he hurt? Have they done something-”

Blades laughed, and it was as humourless and cold as the glint in Prowl’s optics when he’d told Hot Spot that First Aid wouldn’t be coming home just yet. “Of course they have.” A pause, a quick glance at Hot Spot before he continued. “But that’s not it. It’s not what they’ve done to him, it’s what he’s done to them.”

* * *

Swindle kept looking at him. First Aid tried not to fidget. His valve cover wasn’t right, the damage had knocked the seals out of whack. A drip of lubricant escaped through the gap.

“Enjoying the show?” Swindle laughed. It should have been obvious that he wasn’t. He didn’t want to watch, and the ghostly thrill of arousal was far from welcome. Swindle geared up to say something else, but his comm began to beep. He hit the two way channel, and a tiny hologram appeared: brown with purple optics. “Yeah,” Swindle said,

“We have an emergency,” Blast Off said. “Inform Onslaught immediately. We need to switch to Delta Plan two point one.”

“Ons is busy,” Swindle said slowly, and First Aid thought he caught a shadow of movement at Swindle’s throat, his primary fuel line constricting.

“I know, he isn’t answering his comms. Just tell him-”

“ _You_ tell him,” Swindle said. “He’s in his office, fragging Tex.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Blast Off spat. The image on the monitor flickered, and the view of Onslaught writhing against Vortex disintegrated. It was replaced with a picture of Blast Off. Energon stained his chestplates, scratches scored his helm. He held out a handful of broken circuitry. On a table behind him sprawled Lazerbeak, chest open and one wing twitching. “If they don’t already know, they will soon.”

“What the frag you go and do that for!” Swindle yelled.

“I had no choice,” Blast Off said. “I caught him hacking the datapads you and Onslaught so conveniently left in the War Room. I’ve already contacted the Ark.”

“How’d he even get in? Slag, I don’t care.” Swindle glared at First Aid. “Go to medbay, fuel up, and get ready to leave.”

“He’s still online,” Blast Off said. “Barely. We could use him as a hostage.”

“Let Ons decide,” Swindle said. “Why the frag does this always happen to us?” He slapped First Aid on the arm. “Get up! Go! And get your databanks sorted.”

First Aid stumbled from his seat. Arousal stole the charge from his processors and dulled his thoughts. He tried to distance himself from the bond, but it was impossible. He could refuse to send, it appeared, but he couldn’t possibly refuse to receive.

“ _Now!_ ” Swindle shrieked, and shoved him out the door. “Ons?” He continued in a cautious tone as First Aid staggered down the stairs. “Ons, I don’t wanna interrupt, but we got a situation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's reading, and everyone who's left comments and/or kudos, thankyou :) I'm surprised and very happy that so many people have enjoyed the story so far, and I hope it continues to be enjoyable.
> 
> I aim to update every fortnight on a Saturday morning (GMT). With any luck, this will give me time to do other things, while also helping me to get my butt into gear and finish this.
> 
> I've also made a conscious decision to introduce new POV characters, as it just felt like the right place to do that. I hope it works for you :)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about character death: I won't be killing off any Combaticons or Protectobots, but from here on in, I can't guarantee that bad things won't happen to other characters. 
> 
> I didn't give notice of this at the beginning, because I had no idea the story would go in this direction. Actually, I had no idea it'd get anywhere, I just thought it'd be non-stop porn. :)

Vortex clawed at the desk. His valve clenched around Onslaught’s spike, increasing the friction along with the charge, bringing him closer to the brink with each deep thrust. It was incredible, no wonder his bond mate had enjoyed being spiked the previous night. 

Then, to Vortex’s disappointment, Onslaught stopped. 

The mech held still inside him, one hand pushing hard on his rotor hub, but his attention had flown. 

“ _Please?_ ” Vortex whined. He tried to squirm, and Onslaught pressed down, pinning him to the desk. Swindle was talking – something about a laser and delta plan and two… something, Vortex didn’t care. He wanted this overload, _needed_ it. And maybe afterwards Swindle could make it up to him for the interruption. 

He flicked his rotors. The frustration was maddening. 

Onslaught withdrew. “We’ll finish this later,” he said, and Vortex couldn’t help but snarl. He sent a desperate plea via the connection, but Onslaught unplugged them, and he sagged. 

“Later.” He sighed; he wanted it _now_. His first valve overload, it would be amazing, intense, glorious. But no, Onslaught had already packed away his equipment, like the thrill wasn’t still zipping around his circuits. 

“Onslaught to Blast Off, how soon will you be ready to leave?” 

They were leaving? Vortex tried to straighten up, but his spike wouldn’t depressurise, and scrap he’d really made a mess of the desk. Maybe if he stood close enough to Onslaught and let his energy field flicker just so… But Onslaught was already leaving, still talking into his comm. 

“C’mon,” Swindle said. “We gotta get you armed.”

“I am armed.” Vortex looked down. “ _Frag_.”

Swindle gave him a crooked grin. “More armed?” He glanced at the door. “And maybe less visibly… Yeah. Thrusters is gonna be a breem or two, you want some help with that?”

Vortex stared; how could Swindle think that he _didn’t_ want help with that? “Yes?” he ventured. “Um… but we got an emergency?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Swindle shot another glance at the door, before gently pushing Vortex back onto the desk. His armour was scorching. “Get your aft on there,” he said. “We gotta make this quick.”

The desk groaned, and Vortex grabbed a hold of the metal bars. His rotor hub ground through the dregs of the varnish, and his aft slipped on a soup of lubricant and organic splinters. 

Swindle clambered up and straddled him. 

“Thought you wanted to spike me?” Vortex said. He hefted himself further onto the table, and almost wailed when Swindle took a light and practiced hold of his hardware. 

“No time now,” Swindle said. “And I ain’t gonna let this go to waste.” A hiss of moving parts, and Swindle shifted. He paused for the briefest of moments, before easing himself down onto the spike. The world turned to static, and the temperature again soared. 

Vortex’s valve ached, a raw emptiness that made him pull up the recent memory of Onslaught taking him, summoning the ghost of a thick, hot spike to fill himself. And Swindle… wow, Swindle rode him with a quick, urgent motion that was so very new. The charge rocketed, his spike heated. He answered Swindle’s movements with a sharp thrust of his hips, and with each thrust the desk creaked. 

Swindle’s fans roared, and he changed his angle. Leaning face to face, he rocked his hips, looking Vortex straight in the optics. Vortex grabbed his aft and pounded into him. He saw nothing but purple, felt only the heat and the thrill, and the rising warm glow of climax. His circuits glowed, and his engine whined. 

“Next time, I’ll spike you,” Swindle panted. His valve clenched, and the charge peaked. Vortex held on tight, and submersed himself in the thrill of release. 

Swindle rode him a while longer, before his own climax made his valve shudder. 

Vortex murmured his approval, and stroked Swindle’s face. “I like your optics,” he said, and Swindle gave him the strangest look, half a smile on his face. It was unfathomable, and the gestalt bond gave no helpful insight into what he might be thinking. Then Swindle laughed, and climbed down. 

“C’mon,” he said. “Pack it away, we gotta get ready.”

* * *

First Aid sat in the supply closet and shivered. He shouldn’t have kept watching. Seeing Vortex with Onslaught had been bad enough, but watching him - _feeling_ him - with Swindle. That was so much worse.

His frame trembled, his cables so tight they ached. The charge simmered, and lubricant leaked in a tiny steady trickle from the broken seal of his valve cover. He tried to think things through, but clarity was impossible. He was dimly aware that Lazerbeak was injured. Soundwave must know about the treaty. He was going to see his team again, and soon. 

But it was as shadowy a prospect as it had ever been. He brought his team mates to mind, saw their faces, summoned the warmth of their love for him. 

It did nothing for the needy, crawling arousal, or the grimy feeling, sullied by the act of observing through the spark bond while Swindle fucked himself on Vortex’s spike. 

First Aid cringed. He reached for his valve cover, the fifteenth time in the past half a breem. And this time, he didn’t force himself to stop. This time, he drew the cover slowly, achingly back, and wiped away the spilled lubricant with his fingertips. So warm, but nowhere near as warm as the rim of his valve. 

He needed this, physical release, a relief from the symptoms of the bond. He was going to see his team, he’d have to form Defensor. He couldn’t meet them a mess of frustrated lust and self-loathing. At the very least, he could get rid of the charge. If he didn’t, it might infect them all. 

He made quick work of it. Plunging two fingers deep inside himself, he sought out the most sensitive of nodes. He made his energy field ripple through his fingertips; they teased the surface of the sensor cluster, summoning a sharp rise in charge, forcing a disconnect between his revulsion at Swindle and the needs of his frame. 

He knew how to bring himself off quickly, neatly. He thought of Vortex the previous night, as close to consent as they had ever got. 

It still wasn’t right, and it never would be. But he could live with this, he thought. He could accept the coercion of the bond with Vortex so new and keen, and free from the blight of sadism and malice. 

He could make sure Vortex’s second chance wasn’t squandered. 

The overload sent little shocks through his valve, and his spark echoed hungrily with a need for his bonded. For his team too, he thought, but it was the rotary who came fastest to mind. 

He wasn’t prepared for the comm. “Hey Autobot! Aid! Pick up!” It was Brawl.

First Aid seized a cloth from a low shelf, sending a box of logic circuits tumbling to the floor. He wiped his hands, cleaned his legs, and snapped his cover shut. 

“Aid? Aid, you can hear me right? Blast Off, I think I broke my comm!” 

“I’m here!” First Aid blurted. He pressed the button on his arm on the third attempt and spoke again. “I’m here. Um… Brawl?”

“Where’s ‘here’?” Brawl said. “I gotta come get you.”

“Medbay?” First Aid responded. He heaved himself to his feet. No time to pick up the circuits, he had to prepare. And even though his mind was a little unclear on exactly what he should be doing right now, his core programming had no doubts. 

He traversed medbay like a drone. A canister of lubricant, a small cube of energon. He topped himself up via his auxiliary intakes, even the fuel. He didn’t think he could force himself to swallow right now.

Would he really get to see his team?

He wanted to, oh scrap how he wanted to. But he just couldn’t see it.

“You wanna subsonic disassembler rifle or a scatter blaster?” Brawl started yelling before he’d made it through the doors. His optics gleamed, and he hefted two very large guns, one of which looked as though it belonged to Swindle. “I gotta get you armed,” Brawl added. 

“I don’t go armed,” First Aid said quietly. It wasn’t strictly true, but the small, custom pistol Hot Spot insisted he carry at all times was a world away from these guns. 

“Sure you do,” Brawl said. “You shot at me loads.”

“As a part of Defensor.” First Aid gripped the workbench. “I’m a field medic, I don’t carry that kind of weapon.”

“You do now,” Brawl countered. “Have a feel of the rifle, it suits your frame better. I know Swin’s a shortaft and all, but you ain’t as stocky as him.” He laid the firearm on the bench, and pushed it gently towards Aid. “You got everything else you need?”

“Everything?” First Aid looked up. “Where’s Vortex?”

Brawl gave him an odd look. “Arming up,” he said. “I thought… the spark thing, don’t you just _know_?”

“Not all the time,” First Aid said. 

Brawl abandoned what First Aid could only assume was Swindle’s spare cannon, and pushed the rifle into the medic’s hands. “Safety’s here,” he said. “Just point and click.”

As usual, it was easier just to let Brawl have his way. First Aid took the rifle, and allowed his core programming to take care of the rest. He grabbed tools for those of his compartments that weren’t already full, and a hand-held medikit for everything else. 

“Brawl!” Blast Off’s voice came loud and clear over Brawl’s comm. “You have fifty astroseconds.”

“I’m on it!” Brawl yelled back. Then, to First Aid, “We gotta go. C’mon.”

* * *

It didn’t feel real. Not the frantic run to where Blast Off was waiting in alt mode. Not the swift takeoff, or the scent of burning circuitry. Not even Lazerbeak’s twitching frame, strapped down in one corner of the shuttle’s cargo hold.

Vortex had cleaned himself up since the interface, but he still smelled faintly of Swindle. First Aid had the urge to countermand Onslaught’s order for no bodily contact, and to crawl into Vortex’s lap and re-assert his own claim. Instead, he shivered in his seat, and tried not to let his energy field flare. Thank Primus Swindle was on the flight deck with Onslaught.

After a while, Blast Off slowed. The tug of gravity changed, and the cargo straps shifted; Lazerbeak screamed. 

“I need to help,” First Aid said, already half out of his seat. Vortex nodded, and opened a comm to the flight deck.

“Put him in stasis lock,” Onslaught said, and the comm died. 

First Aid landed on his knees. The floor was dull purple, clean, but his mind’s eye inserted a trace of silver, told him how close he was to the place Onslaught had violated him. 

Shaking, he unfastened the straps holding Lazerbeak to the floor. He mustn’t think of that, or of Blast Off being aware of him, watching him, hating him. He set to work. 

Even with his hands in the cassetticon’s mangled chest, the situation still didn’t quite feel real. He tied off hoses and stabilised sections of wire so they couldn’t accidentally meet and short the smaller mech’s systems. He patched armour with a quick-drying adhesive; there was no time to weld.

Vortex watched with an avid curiosity. But he didn’t move to join First Aid on the floor, and he didn’t speak until Lazerbeak was securely in stasis and First Aid had returned to the seat by his side. 

“It’ll be all right,” he said. 

“Sure it will!” Brawl boomed. He tapped his foot, and looked out of the tiny window in the door. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

First Aid tried to calm his ventilation. “I don’t know where we’re going,” he said softly. 

Vortex gave his arm a gentle nudge, swift melding of their energy fields. “Surprise attack,” he said. “Blast Off’s got the co-ordinates. Your team will be there.”

Brawl laughed. “Gonna be weird shootin’ with ‘em not at ‘em.” He paused a moment, glanced at Vortex. “Maybe not for you.”

First Aid gripped the edge of his seat and tried not to squeeze. Vortex’s laughter gave him hope; the sparkbond again, tugging and twisting him. Its manipulations had already knocked him out of shape. He wanted to see his team, but it was nothing compared to the fierce need to stay close to Vortex, to be there for him in what was, essentially, his first real fight. 

Another nudge, a brief parting of Vortex’s mask, a smile. “I’ll find you after,” he said. 

First Aid nodded, and focused on his ventilation.

* * *

They were airborne a long while. Waiting, Onslaught told them, ensuring the enemy had reached the target zone before they could launch their attack. Vortex tried to relax, but it was hard. His bond mate was a bag of live wires, all twisted up inside and sparking at random. Nothing Vortex did seemed to help, and the things he was pretty sure _would_ help were things that neither Blast Off nor Onslaught would be happy with him doing at this exact moment.

Later, he thought. He’d take Aid aside and give him a nice long polish, then a slow and gentle spiking on the bunk or maybe outside under the vast blue sky. Or, if he didn’t want to interface, Vortex would just hold him and listen to him. Anything to make him feel good. 

Not yet though. Now, he ran simulations through his combat programming, while he tried as subtly as he could to get First Aid to respond to the calming fluctuations of his energy field.

* * *

They touched down in a war zone.

No sooner had First Aid’s feet hit the ground than Blast Off transformed. The maelstrom of his mass shifting blurred into a kaleidoscope of laserfire. 

A gout of flame speared overhead, the ground trembled. Grimlock and Sludge charged up behind them. Then a swift dart of white closed in on them, a grey face emerging from a chaos of parts. 

“You took your time!” Starscream yelled; he raised both arms and fired at the oncoming Dinobots. “Secure the power plant, Megatron’s orders!” 

Onslaught turned his back on the seeker, and looked over his troops. “Combaticons, transform and combine!”

First Aid took a step back, then another. He clutched Lazerbeak to his chest, the medikit slung with the rifle over his shoulder. He should shoot Starscream, he thought, before the flier saw the mess of Soundwave’s cassette in First Aid’s arms. 

He couldn’t.

Hot metal hit his back and he stumbled; clawed hands gripped his shoulders, the briefest reassuring bump of a chin hit the top of his helm. Then Grimlock’s voice, so loud in his audials that his whole head rang. “You First Aid, you go with him Sludge. Go now!”

Grimlock nudged him towards the immense bulk of the largest Dinobot, but First Aid faltered. The Combaticons had combined.

Bruticus towered over Starscream. A pale gleam in the giant’s shadow, the seeker was arrogance incarnate. His thrusters scorched the ground as he rose, bringing himself up to the combiner’s face. 

“The power plant!” he repeated. “Now!” He fired once more, past Bruticus’ shoulder at Sludge, before Bruticus lazily raised his fist, and slammed Starscream out of the air. 

First Aid gasped, and Grimlock nudged him again. 

“You go!” he roared. “That way! _Now!_ ”

He ran. Sludge fell in beside him; the ground shook with the impact of each massive foot, and his tail cracked the air like a whip. 

The ground rumbled, a deeper, heavier sound, and a smear of purple and green emerged to their right: Devastator rising from the smoke. First Aid ran faster, Lazerbeak rattling in his grip. It felt like forever, but suddenly Ratchet was there. In front of him. Taking Lazerbeak, asking him questions. 

_Ratchet._ He’d never thought he’d see him again. But there was no time to think, Ratchet was talking, repeating himself. First Aid struggled to comprehend. 

“Stasis”, he said. “My team?” He plunged himself into the gestalt bond, the first time in far too long. It hit him like a wrecking ball. 

“You First Aid hurt?” Sludge said. 

“No!” He retreated from the bond, putting some distance between himself and the urgent yearning of his team mates, their loss and fear and love. 

“I won’t keep you from them,” Ratchet said. “Although Primus knows I should. Sludge, get him to Hot Spot.” 

This time First Aid transformed. The ground here was smooth, warm tarmac, damp from recent rain, lacking the pits and cracks of the front lines. He drove fast, not following Sludge any more, but the spark signatures of his team. In the distance, Bruticus howled, and the bond told him that it was a howl of rage rather than pain. 

A shot clipped his wing mirror. He swerved. Seekers overhead, Skywarp and Thundercracker. Sludge spewed flame at them, and First Aid sped out in front. Just a little way longer… 

Smoke billowed up ahead. Rubble steamed, a building had collapsed. Purple laserfire shot out from behind it. 

And in front of the ruin, crouched amid a snarl of broken concrete and rib-like jutting girders, was his team. Blades saw him first, then Streetwise, grinning wide enough First Aid could see his denta. Groove beckoned him, so very urgent, as though he wasn’t already going as fast as he could. 

The laser fire slowed, and First Aid heard the echo of Motormaster’s barked command. In the shadow of the fallen building, the Stunticons prepared to combine. 

Then Hot Spot spoke, and his words ignited First Aid’s spark. “Protectobots,” he called, “form Defensor!”

* * *

Bruticus was mad. It was the good kind of mad, the kind that made smoking craters of his enemies. The kind his components would be proud of.

“ _Die!_ ” he screamed, and plunged his fist into Devastator’s face. He’d beaten him before. Former enemy, former conquest. He should have been vanquished; instead he stood. Bruticus didn’t know how, but it was wrong, and by Primus he would make it right again. 

Fighting felt good. He didn’t worry about the jets in the sky. His allies had jets of their own. And a mech as large as him, a mountain in orange and grey. They would deal with the seekers. 

Bruticus didn’t know much – he lacked the time and the energy to access even a fraction of his components’ knowledge. But he knew his allies from his enemies, and he knew that the pain had gone, that itching discomfort in his circuits which he’d had to endure almost his entire life had been erased. The medic who’d watched him train – red and white – he’d done it. Bruticus knew his name, but the data was buried deep, and he didn’t have a hope of retrieving it now. 

Devastator struck back, a heavy thump that cracked Bruticus’s visor and made him roar his hate as he rained down blow after blow in return. 

A new awareness hit him, just as he finally pierced the thickness of his enemy’s armour and wrenched out a hand-full of whatever he could reach. He paused, and Devastator broke down. His components fell, yelling and scattering; one slammed against the floor and twitched. 

Whatever that new awareness was, identifying it demanded processing power Bruticus couldn’t spare. It buzzed at the edge of his awareness, alien and strangely reassuring. 

A new assault began, from his fallen enemy’s components this time. Bruticus laughed and let the dead parts fall on them like rain. Then he aimed his gun, and fired.

* * *

Defensor de-combined after the third assault. Menasor was still up, still fighting. First Aid rolled, ducking behind a slab of leaning concrete. He saw Megatron in the distance, shooting at Prime, and Soundwave covering his leader.

Ravage, however, he didn’t see. 

The cassetticon leapt, a fury of teeth and long, sharp claws. First Aid cried out and rolled, but Ravage clamped on his arm, biting, shredding. Ravage’s cannons discharged, and First Aid twisted beneath her. The impact blasted his senses, not a direct hit, but blinding, deafening. First Aid cringed from the shockwave, struggling to reboot his hearing and vision, to assess himself for damage. To keep Ravage from tearing him apart. 

Blades yelled from somewhere to his left, and Hot Spot called out ahead. A small engine whined, a fury of revs, and Groove came flying through the air straight at them. 

First Aid jerked sideways, bringing Ravage into his path. Groove transformed midair, slamming into the cassetticon, and used the momentum of his flight to wrench her away. 

Small instruments tumbled, a cascade of tools and equipment slid through the hole in First Aid’s arm. He clapped his hand to the wound to stop them, but Ravage was back, snarling, rending, and with her the thunderous footstep of something very large getting very close. 

“Run!” Groove yelled, just as Hot Spot called, “Regroup!” 

Blades collided with Ravage, his hands around her throat, and Groove grabbed First Aid by his uninjured arm. Together, they fought for balance, stumbling, then running, heading for Hot Spot, not for safety but to be close enough to again combine. 

By the time he looked back it was far too late. Amid the slender medical instruments and the small scraps of his armour, just to the side of where Ravage lay panting and leaking, glinted a data crystal. The crystal with Vortex’s memories. It was in pieces. 

First Aid spun to go back; it couldn’t be, it was a trick of the light. He could fix it! But Groove had better leverage, and Menasor was coming. 

“Protectobots!” Hot Spot commanded. “Unite!”

* * *

The odd awareness still tingled. With every face Bruticus crushed, with each fresh gout of energon that erupted from his screaming foes, that awareness of connection, of someone _other_ , only increased.

Red medic, he thought. His observer, somewhere in the mess of smoke and flame. Hurting. 

But online, awake. Red medic functioned, and Bruticus functioned. And that was something their enemies would soon cease to do.

The sensation of pain increased. Not his pain, red medic’s. Knowledge came in shards, small as his circuits; red medic was a component, an arm. He slowed as his processors drained power from his other systems, dredging up the data, fitting it together. 

Red medic was a combiner, and his combined form was hurt. 

Rage didn’t even begin to describe it. Bruticus would catch whoever had caused that pain. He’d tear them limb from limb and rip their spark out with his teeth. 

A grounder transformed at his feet, aimed up at him and fired. Bruticus reeled, but the terrain was on his side, and he pushed off against a chimney almost as tall as himself, and used the force of his swing to bring his tank foot down on the mech with the gun. 

The crunch was wholly satisfying. 

He tore across the battlefield. Lasers scored his paint, and bullets stung. They weren’t enough to make him de-combine, not this time. And this time he didn’t have that button at the back of his neck, the white seeker’s betrayal. Bruticus hoped the white seeker was dead. 

He hoped all his enemies were dead. Or dying. 

Purple light scorched his shoulder. Fusion cannon; he let his programming take over, calculated the trajectory, aimed and fired. Another building collapsed, another enemy screamed in hate and frustration. 

The silver one. The target. 

A truck sped past Bruticus’s feet, up a ramp of fractured concrete and into the air. At the apex of its arc, it became the Prime. He vanished into the dust of the dead building, and the shooting and the shouting began anew. 

Bruticus fired again, this time at his enemy’s soldiers. More seekers, more grounders. But the phantom pain tugged at him, urging him along.

He ran. 

The combiner was red and white, like the medic, but blue as well, and pink with energon, black with soot. He was down, pinned by another gestalt. A dark grey foot crushed his chest, an immense gun aimed straight at his head. 

Bruticus knew this new enemy, although he couldn’t remember where from. He snarled and launched himself at the mech. 

“You!” The mech roared, and suddenly Bruticus remembered his name: Menasor. 

Bruticus didn’t bother to speak. The world was reduced; there was the mech, there were his fists. He saw no reason to think, just to fight. 

Menasor tore at him, but the other combiner, his ally lying bleeding on the floor, was hauling himself up, fighting the urge to fragment with every micron of his being. 

The red medic’s combiner lifted his gun. Bruticus ducked a massive fist, and grabbed his enemy around the waist. He squeezed, and as he squeezed, the red medic’s combiner steadily – carefully – raised the barrel of his weapon. 

He fired.

* * *

First Aid fell without grace. He smashed into the ground, the tarmac fracturing around him. Menasor was on fire, Bruticus was still roaring, still punching him. But slower now, the cracks widening at his seams. Fragmentation was inevitable.

“Decepticons!” Soundwave’s voice echoed, unmistakable and impossibly loud. “Retreat!”

“Aid! Aid, oh Primus!” Blades skidded to his side, landing on his knees. “Aid, frag… You had me worried there.” 

“Blades!” A strangled cry, then a hoarse whisper that seemed to burn First Aid’s throat, “I never… I never thought I’d see you again…” His voice broke, and for a long moment all he could do was stare. Then Blades smiled, and gathered him up in his arms. So gentle, and so badly damaged First Aid could hardly stand it. But Blades was strong, and First Aid clung to him as best he could. 

“We missed you so much,” Blades whispered, but First Aid hardly heard him. He looked up over Blades’ shoulder, and watched as Bruticus came crashing to the ground.

* * *

Vortex groaned and tried to heave himself out of the dirt. He could hardly call it a road, not any more. The enemy was a smudge in the sky, a swarm of bodies getting slowly more distant. He found his knees, swaying as his gyros cut out. Then his arms turned to rubber and the broken tarmac rose to meet him.

“Tex! Tex can you hear me? Ons is down!” Brawl’s voice fluctuated in volume, in counterpoint to the ringing in his audials. “Tex, _please!_ Fraggit, someone get a medic! I need a medic!” 

It was the wrong medic who came. The right colours, but First Aid didn’t have a chevron, and First Aid was with his team. Vortex’s spark told him everything; safe, comforted, in shock and pain, but not critically hurt. Worrying for him. 

“Keep a lid on it, Huffer,” the new medic said, and it felt to Vortex as though he’d missed something. “Brawl, stop fidgeting, they’re going to be fine. Blast Off, how many can you transport?”

Vortex tried to focus on the voices, but the shuttle’s reply was lost in a blizzard of static. 

The next time Vortex came around, he was indoors. He tried to sit up, but his head spun and his rotors hurt and _frag_ it felt like Menasor had fallen on top of him. Stupid aft. 

He gave his optics another reboot, and attempted to lever himself vertical. 

“Don’t get up,” Blast Off said. He approached the berth from outside of Vortex’s field of vision. “Your hydraulics were severely compromised, your repairs require time to integrate.”

“Where are we?” Vortex asked. His bond mate was close, alive, a little frantic, but Vortex could help with that. He checked the gestalt bond. “What happened to Onslaught and Swin? All I got’s that they’re online.”

Blast Off went over to the small room's door and engaged the lock. “Their repairs will take longer,” he said. Vortex tried to sit again, and Blast Off huffed. “You never could follow orders.” He put his hand over Vortex’s pectoral vent and pressed him solidly against the bunk. “Stay,” he growled.

“I need to see them,” Vortex said, but he offered no physical resistance. The touch was nice, in a forceful way, and at least Blast Off was talking to him. 

“You’ll see them soon,” Blast Off said. “Now, before your… _bond mate_ gets it into his head to pay a visit, I have something that belongs to you.” He moved his hand away, and Vortex was tempted to have another go at sitting up just to get pressed down again. Blast Off glared. “ _No_ ,” he said. “I can’t believe for one moment that a military heliformer would be programmed with such a blatant disregard for authority, but your actions suggest that my belief is incorrect. Now stop being an awkward glitch and _hold still_.”

Vortex shivered, and did as he was told. 

Blast Off made a noise of approval, and reached for Vortex’s helm. “Lean to the side,” he said, and Vortex marvelled at the odd sensation of the screws coming loose, the clips unfastening and the seals dividing. 

Blast Off gave him the section of his helm to hold. “I’ve done similar before,” he said. “Although you won’t remember. Not yet, anyway. Judging by past experience, you’re going to enjoy this.” 

Vortex wasn’t sure ‘enjoy’ was the right word, but the sensation of Blast Off’s fingers inside his head – of the minute shifts in the shuttle’s energy field brushing over and through his personality component – was far from painful. It was odd, especially when Blast Off nudged a portion of circuitry aside to expose a set of expansion ports. Vortex could feel the air rush over them. 

“What are you doing?” Vortex asked, and Blast Off’s fingers stilled for a moment. 

“I’m restoring you,” he said. He bent and retrieved something from a compartment on his thigh. It glittered, prismatic and beautiful, and Vortex wanted to touch it, but Blast Off removed it from view and began fiddling again, adjusting clips and nudging bunches of wires. “Your bond mate never will,” he said, his voice a soft burr against Vortex’s audial. “He’ll put it off and put it off until you’re no longer a mech who has lost his memories, but an entirely new person, and by then it will be too late.”

“What do you mean?” Vortex said. Against all logic, he tried to look, but Blast Off held him still. 

“This is critical, do _not_ move.” He sighed, a great gust of air from his vents, and Vortex slumped. “I’m giving you back your memories.”

“Really?” Vortex held himself as still as he possibly could. “How did you… But…” 

“I watched the security footage,” Blast Off said, as his fingers continued to move, and one of the connections clicked into place. “Your mate is less than careful in his subterfuge. Knowing where he kept the crystal, it was simple enough to make a copy while he was in recharge.”

“You could have asked him,” Vortex said, but Blast Off laughed. 

“And that would have achieved what precisely?” the shuttle said. “He’s a liability, and you can’t control him as you are.”

“Control him? But I don’t want to-” Vortex gasped as the third and final connection snicked into place. His HUD lit up; his automated systems took over, scanning the foreign body, evaluating its status. 

“You’re not in your right mind,” Blast Off said. “You’ll soon be back to an approximation of normal.” He withdrew his hands and replaced the section of Vortex’s helm. “Or what passes for normal for you.”

Vortex tried to meet Blast Off’s eye, but the shuttle refused to look at him. “Why?” he said. “Why do you want me like I was before?”

Blast Off tightened the final screw before he replied, and this time he did make optical contact. “I dislike change,” he said, and he pronounced ‘change’ in a similar tone to that he used for ‘bond mate’. 

Vortex thought there would be more, but Blast Off simply left.

* * *

“I need to see him,” First Aid said. He tried to keep his voice stable, to stop his hands from shaking. His spark flared, an echo of the tension cramping his cables. “Please, Ratchet.”

“He isn’t your patient,” Ratchet said. “And you’re on leave.” He smiled, and to First Aid it had an edge of worry about it. “Go home, get some rest.”

First Aid took a long and shuddering vent-full of air. “I’m not going without him.”

“There’s nothing more for you to do here,” Ratchet said. “I know the treaty put you under certain pressures, but you’re not beholden to them. Do I need to order you home?”

“You don’t understand.” First Aid glanced at the door. On the other side, Hot Spot waited with Groove. Blades sat down the corridor, talking to Streetwise. “I… the bond… _please_ Ratchet.”

“Aid, I know this has been hard on you, and I know that none of us can really understand how hard, but you’re safe now. Trust me.” 

“ _He_ isn’t,” First Aid countered. “He needs to be with me. I can complete his repairs. I promised him… I can’t leave him with them.”

Ratchet frowned. “Why?” he said. “Are his team mates a danger to him?” 

“No,” First Aid replied. “Yes… Sort of. I…” He buried his face in his hands. He wished Vortex would just come right out and tell everyone like he’d told Blades. First Aid had never had a problem with admitting his mistakes. But this was more than a mistake, this was deliberate. As Swindle had said, he might as well have committed murder. 

Ratchet went to stand, perhaps to fetch Hot Spot, but First Aid looked up and he stopped. 

“I did something terrible,” First Aid said. “I… You need to tell Prime, this needs to go down in a report. Do you… I’d recommend you record this.”

“Oh Aid,” Ratchet sighed. He settled back in his seat. “Anything they coerced you into doing, you know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”

First Aid straightened up, fingers twining in his lap. “I know,” he said quietly. “This… This isn’t that. I tried to fix Vortex. I didn’t want…” His voice cracked and he reset his vocaliser to begin again. “The bond’s so strong, we can’t get away from it. I didn’t want to be bonded to someone with… with his malfunctions. I wanted to find the source of them, I… I wanted him to be better than he was. The option came up to restore his factory default settings, so I did.”

For a long while, Ratchet didn’t speak. Then he released the air in his filters in a sharp sigh. “Did it work?” he said.

First Aid nodded. “I… kept a copy of his memories. All the data about Cybertron, all those places, all those events, I couldn’t get rid of it.” He heaved air in deep, as though it would clean out his mind along with his vents. “But Ravage attacked me in the battle, it… the crystal got smashed.” He met Ratchet’s optics, searched his expression, although he really didn’t know what for. “Vortex is effectively new,” he said. “He’s still learning about the world, about people, he… he cares for me and I need to be there for him. I promised I’d take him home.” 

“Who else knows?” Ratchet said, and First Aid flinched. But what did he expect? Sympathy? 

“Blades,” First Aid said. “The Combaticons.”

Ratchet typed something else into the console. “Who was the first person he saw when he came online?” 

“Me,” First Aid said. “Just me. He thought I was an engineer. I’d like to be the one to inform Hot Spot, if that’s all right.”

Ratchet nodded. “He’s your commander. With your permission, I’d like to send this entire conversation to Prowl and Optimus.”

“Of course,” First Aid said. “I… I know it’s bad, but…” He slumped. He didn’t want to make excuses for himself. 

“Frag, Aid.” Ratchet leaned back, compassion written in the dimming of his optics and the line of his mouth. “In your place, I’d have killed him. But you didn’t, because you’re not me.”

First Aid tried to calm his spark, but the thought of Vortex dead at anyone’s hands didn’t sit well with him at all. “What charges am I likely to face?” he asked. 

Ratchet’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, charges? You were a prisoner of the enemy taking action against one of your captors, there won’t _be_ any charges.”

“But what I did, it’s terrible-”

“And what they did is worse,” Ratchet said. “I’d bet my left hand on it. And they all get immunity from prosecution as per the treaty.” He raised his hand. “All right, this isn’t doing you any good. I’ll give you time to brief your commander, then I’ll talk to Optimus and Prowl, and we’ll decide our next step together, is that understood?”

“I want to see him,” First Aid said. “Afterwards, please.”

Ratchet watched him for a moment before giving a slow nod. “Under supervision,” he said. “And we’ll discuss the spark issue too. But not yet.” He stood, and pressed a button on his console to open the door. “Hot Spot,” he said, “could you come in a moment?”


	14. Chapter 14

No sooner had Blast Off left than Brawl arrived.

"Move over," he said, and pushed his way onto the bottom of the berth. "Thrusters said it was OK to come see you." 

"He also told you to sit on my foot?" Vortex commented, but he shifted his legs and gave Brawl some space. He expected the data crystal to activate, his memories to come spooling back, but nothing happened. "How's Onslaught?" he asked. "And Swin?"

Brawl shrugged his gun turret. "They'll live," he said. "Ons was pretty much slagged. Dunno what got him. Swin took a shell to the optic, and he's gone some laser damage."

Brawl also had laser damage. They all did, Vortex thought. "How long're they gonna be in repairs?"

"Dunno." Brawl swung his feet, heels scraping against the floor. "Ratchet said we gotta stay in medbay, for observation or scrap. I think he thinks I'm gonna stir slag if I go out there."

"Ratchet?" Vortex asked. He pushed up on his elbows, trying to sit; Brawl didn't tell him no.

"Their head medic," Brawl said. "Sharp shooter too. The one with the red pointy thing." He gestured to his helm.

Vortex nodded, the medic from after the battle. He pushed up again, and got a rotor snagged between the edge of the berth and the steadily beeping monitor. 

Brawl snickered. "Y'know the little cut-out bits near the backrest there? That's where your blades are meant to go."

"Shut up," Vortex said, but he was smiling. "Gimme a hand."

"It's always shrapnel with you." Brawl stood with a clatter, and looped Vortex's arm around his shoulders. "It's like you're a shrapnel magnet."

"Uh-huh?" Vortex tugged his rotors into the specially designed notches on the side of the berth, then let Brawl drag him upright. "Looks like someone tried to write their name on your aft with a laser."

"What?" Brawl let go and spun around, catching the monitor with his hip and making the whole bank of machinery shudder. "Gonna fraggin' smelt 'em!"

Vortex laughed, but no sooner had he opened his mouth than a new announcement popped up on his HUD. _Diagnostics complete; preparing for integration in three, two..._ "Brawl?" he said, but the tank was still searching for the phantom burn marks. Something clicked inside Vortex's helm, and he was sure it wasn't an actual sound, but something less tangible. A gateway opening, a road becoming clear that had formerly been blocked. 

"Brawl?" He tried again, and this time his team mate paused. 

"What?" 

_Commencing integration. Estimated time to completion, one point four orns._

"Something's happening," Vortex said. "Thrusters had this crystal with my memories on and he loaded it into my head and-"

Brawl cut him off. "Really?" He peered into Vortex's visor. "You got your memories back? You remember when we said if we ever got on the Ark, it'd be like all minibots, all the time, and Swin said-"

"Huh?" Vortex shook his head. "No, it needs to integrate, it... It's gonna take over an orn!"

"What the frag?" Brawl huffed. "Why's it gotta take so long? Maybe Aid could make it quicker?"

"No!" Vortex grabbed Brawl's arm, as though the tank was about to head off that instant and collect his bond mate. "We can't tell him, not yet. He hates me, the old me. I..." He needed Aid to give him a chance, the real him, not just the rebooted him. And he would, as long as he didn't know about the memories. Vortex could see out reintegration, and tell him afterwards; and Aid would be so pleased when he realised that Vortex having his memories back wouldn't automatically turn him into someone First Aid couldn't like. 

He knew it wasn't the best plan in the universe, but the crystal was in, and he didn't feel any different. Not yet. Besides, it was the only plan he had. 

"I get it," Brawl said, although it was clear that he didn't. "Now listen, I gotta tell you about the thing with the minibots."

* * *

"What's wrong?" Hot spot asked. Something had to be wrong. First Aid was staring at his knees, hands knotted in his lap. He'd closed himself off again, nothing coming through the bond save dry statistics.

Ratchet stood, and offered Hot spot his chair. "Please, sit down," he said. "I'll be back soon, I need to check on my patients."

Hot Spot nodded, and Ratchet quietly left. 

Something _really_ had to be wrong. "Aid?" Hot Spot said. But of course something was wrong. Kidnapped by Vortex, forced to remain at the Combaticon base even after the treaty had been signed, subjected to Primus knew what, then thrust into battle without even the chance to recover from his ordeal. There wasn't a bot on the Ark who could get through that without suffering a few knocks. Hot Spot suppressed a grumble of his engine and moved Ratchet's chair to the front of his desk. 

First Aid looked up; at least his repairs were complete, and there was only a trace of smoke still on the white of his shoulders. 

"I have something to tell you," he said. 

"I'm listening," Hot spot responded. He sat, and couldn't help but be a little relieved when First Aid didn't flinch away from him. 

Even better, First Aid leaned ever so slightly closer. 

"I did something," he said. "Blades knows, but... I wanted to tell you myself. It's unconscionable, I..."

Hot Spot reached for First Aid's hand; he knew he shouldn't, Ratchet had called him in as Aid's commander. But as First Aid's fingers wrapped tightly around his own, and the intensity of his trembling became clear, Hot Spot thought that First Aid didn't need his commander right now. A friend, though? Perhaps that would help.

"Blades said there was something," Hot Spot prompted. "I didn't press him."

"Thankyou," First Aid replied. His energy field was all over the place, and his armour radiated a feverish warmth. He shivered. "I tried to repair Vortex," he said, and Hot Spot was struck by how easily he spoke his captor's name. "I saved him. I made that bond deliberately, but I didn't want... I'm making excuses, I'm sorry." He paused, his fans whirring. "I tried to fix him, and I couldn't, so I restored him to his factory defaults. He doesn't remember a thing." He met Hot Spot's optics, and his expression was so serious, so earnest that it made Hot Spot's spark ache. "I did that to him. I'm responsible for him now."

"You're not," Hot Spot said, as his mind reeled. Only one thing was clear to him; "You don't need to worry about him any more."

"Yes I do!" First Aid jerked back, folding his hands again in his lap. "And he _is_ my responsibility. I did that to him, he's functionally new, and he needs to be around good people, people who'll help him lead a good life. He isn't the person he was before, please understand. I took his memories, all of them. I wiped him clean, and he can't ever have them back because the datacrystal smashed and there was no other backup!"

"He isn't... what?" Hot Spot shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't think I quite understand. You _reformatted_ him?"

"Yes!" First Aid cried. "I... I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a choice. It wasn't much of a choice, but I had one, and that's the decision I made. Ratchet says I won't be subject to formal action, but I'll accept any reprimand you think suitable. I took his life away from him-" 

"He deserved it," Hot Spot said, and it was an effort not to raise his voice. 

First Aid looked stricken. "How can you say that?" he whispered. "No one deserves that."

"He stole you away from us." Hot Spot leaned forward, took First Aid's hands in his own. "He's evil, dangerous. You did the right thing."

First Aid shook his head, his vocaliser emitting a quiet sob. Then he leaned in, resting his head on Hot Spot's helm. "Let me bring him home," he said. 

"What?" Hot Spot tried not to tense up. "Aid, you can't be serious."

"Why not?" First Aid said. "I'm bonded to him. He has a second chance, he can make something of himself, but he can't do it without me, and he can't do it with... with his commander and his team." He squeezed Hot Spot's hands. " _Please._ He needs us."

"I don't know," Hot Spot said, but the turmoil in First Aid's energy field only worsened. "I'll think about it. I'll need to consult with Prime and Ratchet, this isn't a decision I can make by myself." 

First Aid drew slowly back; he seemed to be trying to collect himself. "I understand," he said. "Thankyou." 

"Aid?" Hot Spot said softly. "If anything... happened, when you were with them... You know you can talk to me?" He didn't mean it to sound like a question. "I'm here for you," he said. "We all are. If there's anything we can do to help, all you have to do is say."

First Aid took a deep vent, and his energy field became fractionally more settled. "Just let me bring him home," he said.

* * *

Medics, Vortex decided, were fascinating. Obviously, his bond mate was the most fascinating of all, and no-one could hold a candle to him, but Ratchet was pretty damned intriguing in and of himself.

His first act on arriving had been to expel Brawl. A firm word and a steady look, and Brawl quit trying to convince him that he needed to stay, and slunk off to watch over Swindle. 

Then he began to fiddle with the equipment beside the berth. Each movement was quick and precise; he wasn't impatient, but Vortex couldn't imagine him taking well to hesitation.

"You're not meant to be sitting up," Ratchet commented. "But I suppose the fact you are is a good sign. Hold your arm out."

Vortex complied, and watched as Ratchet tested the maneuverability of his elbow and wrist. His touch was clinical, and only raised the slightest hint of charge. 

"Now the other one," Ratchet said. "How does your head feel?"

"Fine," Vortex said. "Sir. When can I leave medbay?"

"When I say so," Ratchet replied. "And don't 'sir' me, I'm not your commander."

"Um, OK." Vortex searched his pre-installed data for something else to call him, but came up blank. 

"All right," Ratchet said, and let his arm go. He stood back, giving Vortex the kind of look that made him feel as though his circuitry was on show. "I have a few questions for you. But I want you to understand that this isn't a debrief, and it's strictly off the record. I would, however, appreciate it if you answered fully and honestly."

"OK." Vortex smiled, and waited. He could stand to talk to Ratchet, and afterwards perhaps he'd find out when First Aid was coming to visit. 

"What's the first thing you remember?"

Vortex's fuel pump almost stopped, but Ratchet couldn't know about Blast Off and the memory implant. There were no cameras in his little cubical - well, none that any of his sensors could detect, and surely Blast Off wouldn't have been so careless as to let himself be watched? And besides, the crystal was as mute as it had been since its installation; Vortex could perceive the shape of the data, but not its composition. 

"Combaticon medbay," Vortex said. "Blue sky out the window, my bond mate was there." 

"And before that?" Ratchet said, but Vortex shrugged. 

"There's no 'before'," he said. He wondered if Ratchet functioned as First Aid's superior outside of the gestalt; best to play it safe. "I suffered a serious malfunction," he continued, "and First Aid had to return me to my original settings." It was almost true; his former personality _had_ been nothing but defects, or First Aid wouldn't have needed to change him. 

"What type of malfunction?" Ratchet queried. "Did you pick up a virus?"

"An error in my core processors," Vortex said. "He had to do it, or I'd have died. He's not in any trouble, is he?"

Ratchet gave him another dose of that penetrating stare. "What were his interactions like with your team?"

"You'll need to talk to Onslaught," Vortex replied. 

"This is off the record," Ratchet countered. He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was significantly softer. "I'm worried about Aid. He's been throught quite an ordeal. The more you tell me about what happened, the better things will be for him."

Off the record wasn't an alien concept, but it didn't sit well with Vortex's military programming, not when talking about his team or his mate. Still, Ratchet was a medical officer, and nothing bad had happened so far. And it wasn't as though Ratchet had asked about what he himself had done to Aid before he lost his memories. 

"Ons hit him," Vortex said, wanting to get the worst out of the way. "Just the once!" he added quickly, when Ratchet's expression went from benign to stormy. "It was after he found out about me being reformatted. He got mad and punched him, and yelled at him a bit, and then I punched Brawl and Ons took me away for a talk and Aid stayed in medbay with Blast Off." 

"Then what?" Ratchet said.

"I think Thrusters yelled at him too. And he had a fight with Swindle, but that was before."

"A fight? what kind of fight?"

"The kind where they glare a lot," Vortex replied. "They didn't hit each other or anything. It was all 'cause Aid didn't want me to... uh... talk with Swindle." He'd said too much, but Ratchet gestured for him to continue. "Swindle went off and Aid and I talked and it was OK." 

"What about Brawl?" Ratchet asked.

"They get on fine," Vortex said. "Brawl gave him a tiger."

Ratchet's optics flickered, but he evidently decided he'd rather not know. "I need to run some diagnostics," he said. "Tilt your head forward, and try not to move your blades."

"You don't," Vortex said. "Aid sorted it all, he says I'll be OK if I'm with his people, and I am so that's great right?"

"Head forward," Ratchet repeated. "I'm not disparaging his skill, but I do have the edge of experience."

Vortex leaned forward, and tried to work out how to block access to his new, un-integrated memory. "Will I get to see him soon?" he asked. 

"Firewalls down," Ratchet demanded, completely ignoring the question. "I want to take a look at your spark code."

Thank Primus it wasn't his databanks. Vortex gave Ratchet full access, hoping that quick compliance would make him more likely to answer about First Aid. 

"I know where he is," Vortex added. "And who he's with, and all that scrap. The bond tells me. I know he's OK, kind of, but I want to see him."

"He said the same," Ratchet commented. 

"Permission to comm him?"

"Not in medbay," Ratchet said. "Personal comms are disabled for a reason." He pulled back and unplugged his diagnostics cable. "Do you know anything about who you were before your reformatting?"

Vortex shook his head. "Only what people tell me," he said. "What were you looking for?"

"New bonds need to be monitored," Ratchet said. "In case any errors appear in the code. I'm needed elsewhere now. I want you to rest, and wait for your repairs to complete integration before you try to move again. Is that understood?"

Vortex nodded. "Sure." If it would make his reunion with First Aid come any faster, he'd do anything Ratchet said.

* * *

First Aid endured the meeting because he had to. He didn't know if it was duty that kept him in his seat, or the thought of Hot Spot's disappointment, his concern if First Aid were to make his excuses and leave.

They obviously didn't want him to leave. Not Hot Spot or Ratchet, not Prowl or Optimus who sat on the other side of Prime's wide desk. Nor Smokescreen, whose presence Ratchet had requested, and First Aid did not resent. 

He wanted his team, and he wanted Vortex. But he wanted his superiors to understand, especially Hot Spot. And not just as his commander, but as his gestalt-mate and his friend. 

Eventually, Smokescreen suggested that First Aid take a break to refuel. Drained and with his energy field still thrumming an uncomfortably erratic pattern, First Aid agreed. Hot Spot's relief was palpable.

"They want to talk in private," he said, once he and Smokescreen were in the corridor. "I understand that." 

"They've got a lot to talk about," Smokescreen replied. "Shall we go see the rest of your team? I think they're in the rec room."

"They're in Wheeljack's lab," First Aid said, but footsteps along the hall made him close his mouth. He backed against the wall, head down, and waited for whoever it was to pass. 

They didn't.

"Aid, buddy!" It was Slingshot. "I'm glad we got you back. You doing OK?"

First Aid forced himself to look up. "Fine, thankyou," he lied. "Is Silverbolt..." But of course Silverbolt was fine, he'd been at the battle, chasing seekers. Still, he couldn't get the image of Onslaught out of his mind, dirty from fighting, smug and overbearing. 

"He just stopped us spiking the twins' high grade," Slingshot replied with a grin. "I'd say he's good."

"We need to get on," Smokescreen said, but First Aid couldn't get that image out of his mind. 

"I'm sorry he had to come looking for me," he said to Slingshot. "I'm sorry he got hurt."

For a moment, it looked as though Slingshot didn't know what to say. then he laughed. "Don't worry, they just roughed each other up a bit, I was there to save the day."

"You'll have to excuse us." Smokescreen cut between them, and gently urged First Aid along the corridor. Aid allowed himself to be moved; it was either that or sit down right there on the floor and start to cry.

"Uh, yeah, sure, OK," Slingshot said. "Hey Smokes, poker tonight? Sparkplug's game if we are."

"Sure!" Smokescreen called back. "I'm off at eight thirty, call me when you're ready."

"You can go with him," First Aid said. "I'll be all right."

"I'm not leaving you alone," Smokescreen said, "and I'm not playing poker on duty, Prowl'd have me stripped down for parts." He let go of First Aid's arm, but stayed close. "You sure Wheeljack won't be a bit loud for you?"

First Aid shook his head. "He'll be fine." Wheeljack could be as loud as he wanted, and First Aid would slip into the background and stay there. He wouldn't have to talk, he could just float on the conversation, and keep an optic on Vortex's vital stats where they rolled across his viewscreen. 

As long as no-one asked him how he was. 

"I'd like to stop off at medbay," First aid said. He drew in a deep vent, preparing himself for the deception; it was fine to bend the truth about his own mental state, but this was completely different. "Ratchet agreed I could see Vortex under observation. Will you escort me?"

"Huh? Um... I don't..." Smokescreen's doors clanked tense against his shoulders. 

"Just for a little while," First Aid said. "I need to see him, please." He didn't repeat the lie, he knew Ratchet had meant for himself to be the observer, not Smokescreen. 

Smokescreen must have known too. But he didn't comm Ratchet, and he didn't block First Aid's path when he took the turning to repairs. 

"All right," he said. "But only for half a breem, and we're going straight to Wheeljack's lab after."

* * *

Medbay was full of Combaticons. Blast Off sat in corner, reading; Brawl slumped over the side of Swindle's berth, in recharge or pretending to be. His cannon barrel hovered inches above Swindle's nose.

First Aid headed straight for the isolation ward. He knew why Vortex was there. Onslaught had been given an identical room. A cell, really, the berths that were given to injured enemies, or in-fighting Autobots on their way to the brig. 

Only Swindle had a regular berth, even Lazerbeak was isolated, although First Aid doubted he'd been brought out of stasis. 

Blast Off glanced up as they passed. Then he huffed, and went straight back to his datapad. He had the look of a guard about him, although it can't have been to keep anyone in. 

"Hi there," Smokescreen said, but First Aid lay a hand on his arm and forced his energy field to display a note of caution. 

"Friendly," Smokescreen whispered, as they got to the door of Vortex's room. 

First Aid didn't reply. Instead, he typed his code into the door and the lock immediately released. 

Vortex was overjoyed to see him. The bond activated immediately, revealing the rotary's happiness that First Aid had come, his frustration at his hydraulics, his confusion and wariness about the grounder following First Aid through the door. 

"This is Smokescreen," First Aid said. His interface protocols engaged, and scrap but he wanted to leap on the bunk and hook up, and he couldn't, not now. Possibly not ever. He had to be realistic. And to remember what the bond had done to him. Was still doing. This passion was not his own. 

"Hey there!" Vortex gave Smokescreen a cheerful smile, then beckoned Aid over. "Ratchet says I'm not allowed to move. My hydraulics hate me or something. You look great, not a scratch on you."

"You were unconscious for almost a full Earth day," First Aid said. He went over to the monitor and checked the connections. He couldn't help but brush against Vortex's arm, and the brief touch of his energy field was electrifying. 

"So you got all repaired without me?" Vortex said, as though he hadn't felt it too. But his pleasure rang loud and clear through the bond. "Don't blame you. How long till Ratchet's gonna let me out?" 

"I don't know," First Aid said. "Flex your fingers for me."

It was only half an excuse. The touch soothed them both, taking the edge off Vortex's frustration, dulling First Aid's pain.

"It's boring as scrap in here," Vortex commented. He moved his fingers at First Aid's request, then his ankles. "Thrusters is magnetized to that book, and I think someone slipped Brawl a sedative."

"No you don't," First Aid said. "He's tired, that's all."

"You could watch TV?" Smokescreen suggested, and First Aid almost jumped. Amazing how quickly he'd forgotten the other mech was there. 

"Ratchet told me to rest," Vortex said. 

"You should recharge," First Aid said. "Your repairs will integrate faster."

Vortex smiled at him, then reached up to stroke his cheek. By the door, Smokescreen shuffled, as though uncertain what he was supposed to do. 

"Don't wanna recharge," Vortex said. "Not now you're here."

"We can't stay for long," Smokescreen said. "We should be going."

"We should," First Aid agreed, but he didn't want to. It must have been the spark bond, urging them closer without him even noticing, but the press of Vortex's lips was warm against his own, and his spark thrilled at the sudden intimacy. 

Too intimate for a room where they weren't alone. 

Smokescreen coughed, an embarrassed little noise, but First Aid failed to pull away. If it had been Groove or Streetwise or Blades in the berth, Smokescreen would have casually and tactfully left them alone. No, he wouldn't even have been there, and First Aid would have been free to give all the care and reassurance he needed to give. 

Eventually, it was Vortex who pulled away. The quick glance he gave Smokescreen told why. "I guess I oughta let you go," he said. "I'm glad you're all fixed up."

First Aid nodded. "I'll come back," he said. "As soon as I can."

Smokescreen's expression was guarded as they left, and First Aid had the urge to ask him if he was practising for his poker evening. But the impulse to joke came from Vortex, and the moment the door closed behind him, the weight of sadness and uncertainty settled again in his spark.

* * *

Vortex switched his optics off, and focused on the lingering sensation of pressure and warmth, of that beautifully engineered mouth moving against his own. Scrap the grounder standing in the doorway like a prison guard. Smokescreen, Vortex remembered, but the name meant nothing to him, and the mech obviously hadn't been comfortable watching them.

First Aid had been comfortable with Smokescreen though, so Vortex was willing to give him the benefit of doubt. For now, at least. 

He smiled, and shuffled a little down the berth. His rotors caught on the notches, and wouldn't allow him to move far, but that was OK. All he needed was the peace and quiet, the gentle hum of machinery and the memory of First Aid open beneath him. 

"Frag!" His spike pressurised fast, but that was as far as his hydraulics were willing to go. The cover didn't open, and besides, Ratchet might come back. He wasn't sure he wanted that particular medic to catch him with his hand around his own equipment. 

Perhaps he could use the gestalt bond to get Brawl's attention, then Brawl could keep a look-out for him. Or, even better, Brawl could hook them up and they could deal with his sudden and rather intense needs the mechanical way. 

He engaged the gestalt bond.

Brawl was out cold. 

Vortex snarled, and tried Blast Off, but the shuttle was unreachable. Still buried in his book or his star charts, their self-appointed guardian. 

"Thrusters?" he called. There was no answer, and he wasn't about to try again. Did he even interface with Blast Off? He had no idea. The mech was such a spaceship; his pre-loaded data told him that. Blast Off fitted the stereotype perfectly: built in Altihex, aloof, cold, demanding, competent, but arrogant too. And attractive, although Vortex didn't particularly want to dwell on that right now. 

He'd much rather dwell on his bondmate. The medic's smaller frame and bright optics, his limbs that were far from delicate, but that were hardly clunky. He struck exactly the right balance between robust and angular, and his tires were just made for squeezing. 

Vortex dozed a while, not exactly in recharge, but neither was he fully conscious. He let his mind drift, taking him from image to image in his pre-loaded data, and the memories of his new life. His fantasies and thoughts, and odd surreal scenes put together by his unfocussed consciousness. 

He awoke to an argument.

Hushed words, but sharp ones. Blast Off stood outside the door to his room, visible as a blur through the door's frosted glass. Another mech was with him, Vortex didn't know who. A large mech with heavy feet, a grounder by the sound of his engine. 

Eventually, Blast Off moved aside, and the gestalt bond echoed with his displeasure.

This time, Vortex noticed when the lock clicked open before the latch, and it occurred to him to wonder if they'd locked him in. 

He didn't wonder long, as the thought vanished at sight of the grounder. Red optics, immense red and blue frame. The largest grounder he'd seen this side of Onslaught. 

"Commander Hot Spot," he said in greeting, and tried to shuffle himself upright again. 

"Don't move on my account," Hot Spot said. "This isn't an official visit."

Off the record again, Vortex thought, like with Ratchet. He shoved his rotor blades back, and the two above his head hit the wall. What a great first impression. Only it wasn't the first impression, was it? Vortex kept his mouth shut, and tried to work out Hot Spot's mood from his body language and expression.

Hot Spot smiled, but it seemed forced. "You fought well," he said. "All of you. We would have sustained far greater damage had Bruticus not shown up."

"I'll take your word for it," Vortex said. "I don't really remember." The battle was a broken mosaic where four fifths of the pieces had been removed. He remembered a fist, a combiner on fire, the love of power, of strength, the fierce joy of conquest. The pain of separation too, although he couldn't remember getting his wounds, or being patched up afterwards. 

"It'll come back to you," Hot Spot said with confidence. "Maybe when you next combine."

"Maybe," Vortex said. "What happened at the end? I think someone called a retreat, but that wasn't us, was it?"

"That was Soundwave," Hot Spot said. 

Vortex couldn't help but grin. "Is Megatron dead?" he asked. 

"We can only hope," Hot Spot responded. "We'll know more soon, I'm sure." He stepped away from the door, but didn't exactly approach the bunk. 

"Have they locked me in?" Vortex said, and Hot Spot's jaw dropped. "The door locks," Vortex explained. "I didn't notice it before, but I noticed it when you came in, you had to unlock it. We're meant to be allies now, I just want to know if I'm locked in here."

"Um..." Hot Spot looked confused. He turned back to the door and tried the handle. "Doesn't look like it," he said. "I think the lock's to keep people out, not to stop you from leaving." 

"'Cause of all the scrap I did?" Vortex asked. It wasn't a pleasant thought. "Do they know about, uh..." He gestured to his helm. 

"Not everyone," Hot spot said. "Not yet. Prime does, and his officers. Do you want people to know?"

"Frag yes!" Vortex snapped. "If it means I don't have to have a lock on the door, and people won't be scared to let me speak to my own bond mate." 

Hot Spot's optics flickered, the light dancing like flames. "You... think of him that way?" he said. It was a careful question, and it wasn't hard to recognise the new tension in his frame. 

"Of course I do," Vortex said. "I know he only bonded to me to stop me from dying, and frag knows it isn't easy, but we talked and stuff." Vortex shrugged. Judging by Smokescreen's earlier unease, if Hot Spot didn't already know that they were physically intimate, he probably wouldn't appreciate being told. Not like this. "He's as safe with me as he is with anyone in your team," Vortex continued. "I'm not the person I used to be, and I'm not gonna turn back into him." 

"I didn't meant to imply that you were," Hot Spot said. He kept his distance, still, but his expression softened. "I don't know what people have told you about your life before restoration, but it may take a while for people to trust you. Please understand that it isn't intentional. A lot of the Autobots here have long memories, and the war on Cybertron was far from glorious. What came before, as well; the Golden Age is tarnished in many peoples' minds. They might judge you according to your past actions without giving you time to explain who you are now. For my part, I'll try to take you as I find you. But please be patient, it's far from easy."

Vortex didn't know what he'd been expecting, but that wasn't it. "I'll try," he said. "You do believe me, right, that I'd never hurt him?"

"I'll try to believe you," Hot Spot said. "The truth is, I don't know you. I don't know how I can possibly trust you."

"Then get to know me," Vortex said, and to his surprise Hot Spot smiled. It was a sad smile, but at least it wasn't forced. His optics brightened. 

"It can't hurt to try," he said.


	15. Chapter 15

Smokescreen didn't mention the kiss, but his silence indicated what he thought about it.

First Aid kept his head down, and tried to find the words to apologise. If Ratchet hadn't put him on medical leave, he would have anticipated a reprimand at the very least. And that was without turning Smokescreen into a spare tyre. 

They reached the thick double doors to Wheeljack's lab, and First Aid paused. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. That... kind of, um, wasn't meant to happen, and you shouldn't have been forced to watch. I..."

"Don't be sorry," Smokescreen said, and suddenly he was smiling again. "It's OK. I won't pretend I understand, but I'm not going to judge you. Spark bonds are complicated. I get that, and I know it's going to take a while to sort everything out." He reached for the control panel. “Whatever it is you're feeling right now, you're fully entitled to feel it. Shall we go in?" 

First Aid nodded. Arguing would have done no good. He _wasn't_ entitled to feel this way. The lust, the need, none of it was his. And he _wasn't_ ready. Three of his team were inside that room, Wheeljack too, and all he wanted to do was to go back to the isolation ward, and sit with Vortex until Prime and Prowl and Hot Spot had made their decision. 

Not just sit with him. First Aid's armour heated, and he cringed, embarrassed at the sound of his own fans. 

Smokescreen opened the door. 

"Aid!" Streetwise waved from his seat at the edge of the room. "Aid, you gotta come see this, look what Wheeljack built!"

"It's pretty awesome," Blades commented, while Groove stood to fetch another stool. They wanted to approach him, to touch him; their need was painfully obvious. But they held back. 

First Aid was grateful. After the battle they'd rushed him, a ballistic mess of limbs and desperate enthusiasm. He'd wanted them, oh Primus how he'd wanted them, but the force of their affection had been too much, their joy overbearing. 

They must have talked about it while he'd retreated to an empty corner of medbay, and pleaded until Ratchet had let him deal with his repairs alone. 

"Where do you want to sit?" Groove said. "Wheeljack's about to set it off."

"Set what off?" Smokescreen asked. "Maybe we should be the other side of the blast doors." 

Wheeljack looked up long enough to give Smokescreen a pointed glare, then went back to whatever it was he was doing. 

"Don't listen to him, Jack, he's just jealous." A smaller voice emerged from beyond Blades and Streetwise, and Carly leant her head around Blade's arm. She was wearing a crash helmet. "Hi there, Aid, you wanna come over and see what Wheeljack's made for me?"

"Sure," First Aid replied, and a little of his tension eased. He took the seat Groove had found for him, and pulled up beside Streetwise. Smokescreen shook his head, smiling again, and sat a little way apart. 

Streetwise nudged First Aid with his elbow, and Aid tried not to flinch. 

“Watch this,” Carly said, as Streetwise gave him a worried look, and Blades shuffled his stool closer. “It's going to be an exo-skelton, but we've only got the legs so far.”

First Aid leaned forward, pretending interest as Carly stepped into the apparatus. Wheeljack hummed, his facial fins flickering; Groove glanced at Streetwise. Blades looked away.

They were talking about him. First Aid wished Wheeljack would start explaining the exo-suit, he wished his energy field wasn't crawling with guilt and shame and a heat he couldn't dismiss. He wished Streetwise was just a little further away, that he couldn't tell his team mates were talking on a private channel, that he had no idea about their concern, their helplessness. 

As Carly prepared for her test run, First Aid realised it wasn't just his team. Wheeljack didn't usually keep that quiet, Smokescreen didn't have a habit of avoiding eye contact. 

He fought to keep his vents steady. 

“Ready!” Wheeljack announced, making First Aid jump. 

Carly grinned, and took her first shaky step in her new legs. Smokescreen applauded. Blades shuffled his stool closer to Groove. Streetwise stayed quiet.

First Aid was sure they all noticed him eyeing the door.

* * *

“Firewalls down,” Ratchet said.

Vortex rolled his shoulders, and did as he was told. The diagnostics plug was cool in the back of his neck, the cable catching a rotor as it swayed. He watched Ratchet's hands as the medic wrote something on a datapad. “What are you looking for?” 

“Same as before,” Ratchet replied. “You haven't aged a vorn overnight, I still need to monitor your spark function.”

Vortex vented on the cable, increasing the arc of its swing. Ratchet looked strong, capable. He wasn't a batch-built soldier, but he'd be able to fight. Vortex was tempted to make a scan, but the mech would probably notice. 

Ratchet gave him another of those looks that reached far deeper than his paint. “Hot Spot spoke with you,” he said.

Vortex nodded, giving the cable another shove. 

Ratchet caught it. “You do realise this won't be simple, don't you?”

“Huh?” Vortex's optics gravitated to the cable. It was red, slim, whole. His mind's eye gave him another, also red, but stripped of insulation, sparking and frayed. The ghost of an impact rippled through his sensor net, a blue fist in his face.

Vortex stiffened, that was weird. Was this the trickle before the torrent? Would his memories come in a flood, sudden and complete and perfect, and make him _him_ again?

But they ebbed, replaced by a creeping fear that Ratchet could tell what was happening. 

“Listen,” Ratchet said. “I know this isn't going to be easy for you.”

Vortex glared at the cable, wanting it out. “I know,” he lied. 

“I don't think you do,” Ratchet said. 

Vortex brought his knees up, testing the joints. “I want to go out,” he said. “When will Swindle and Onslaught be repaired?”

“Three to five days,” Ratchet said. He unclipped the plug, and drew the cable back into his wrist. “You may get up,” he continued. “ _Carefully_. Not so fast!” He held his palm to Vortex's chest. The pressure reminded him of Blast Off, although the specific memory would not come. “Primus, you're not made of rubber.”

“Part of me is,” Vortex said. “Can I fly?”

Ratchet glared. “Not yet,” he said. “In root more _or_ in alt.”

“But I can leave the room?”

“Only if you're careful,” Ratchet said. “I don't think you appreciate the severity of your injuries.”

“I can't remember my injuries!” Vortex swung his legs around, dangling them off the side of the berth. “All I know is what you told me, and you haven't exactly told me a lot.”

“Your records are here,” Ratchet said, gesturing to a data-sheet pinned to the foot of the bunk. 

“Really?” Vortex dived for it.

“Are you even listening?” Ratchet sighed. “No sudden movements, no running around, no training, no rushing off anywhere without your team. Understand me?”

Vortex nodded. “I'm not fully repaired, people hate the old me, it's dangerous outside,” he said. “I get it.”

“All right,” Ratchet said, although he sounded less than convinced. 

As he left, Vortex completed his visual assessment. He didn't want to underestimate the medic, but from what he'd seen, he was pretty confident: if it came to a fight, Vortex would win.

* * *

Blades lay awake. Dust danced in the light from his optics, scratches glinted on the wall. In his arms First Aid huddled, in recharge but hardly peaceful. He hadn't stopped shaking since he'd laid down to defrag, and although he was quieter in Blades' arms than he was by himself, he still clattered and cried.

At least he hadn't tried to push Blades away. 

The others were with Hot Spot, resting peacefully in the next room. Relatively peacefully. For the fifth time that joor, Blades wondered if he should carry First Aid to them. But they'd tried recharging together, and it hadn't worked. It made more sense for three of them to get a good night's rest, and for Blades to catch up later, than for none of them to sleep. 

First Aid tensed, and Blades hugged him tighter. He whimpered, struggling weakly, his motor functions inhibited by safety protocols that engaged when he was unconscious. Blades held on, trying not to feel the panic in his team mate's energy field, trying not to be offended that his side of the bond was still closed. 

“Shhh, it's me,” Blades whispered. “You're OK, it's all OK.”

First Aid cried static, and curled tighter around himself. He was still shivering, his cables pulled so tight Blades could hear them creak. A flash of terror speared through his energy field and he awoke, gasping.

“Hey, it's all right.” Blades clung on, stroking his helm and trying his best to keep radiating calm and affection. “You're with me, it's OK.”

First Aid shook his head, his optics booting. He shuddered, but at least his vents wound down. “I'm so sorry,” he said, and his energy field morphed from terror to remorse, then to something else entirely, a conflicting mixture of emotions Blades couldn't begin to decode. 

“You don't need to be sorry,” Blades said. He loosened his grip, letting First Aid re-arrange himself. “Did you get your cables all crooked?”

“No,” First Aid replied. “I'm fine. I... Would you interface with me?”

“What?” 

“Please.” First Aid squirmed closer, hot and shivery. “I need this.” 

Blades re-tightened his grip, but kept his hands on First Aid's back; he can't have meant that. “I'm here for you,” Blades said. “You can talk to me.”

“I know.. I... Thankyou, but I don't want to talk.” 

Neither did Blades. But Smokescreen had been clear: talking was good. “It might help?”

“No.” First Aid rattled against him. “It hurts, it... I can't... Interface with me, please.”

Blades stroked his back. “What hurts?” he said. “Do you need me to call Hoist?”

“No.” First Aid cringed, head pressed to Blades' shoulder. “It's the charge, that's all. I just... You helped me when all this started, back home in medbay. I want things to be like they were.” He shuddered, the mess of his energy field as incomprehensible as before.

Blades hugged him tight. “I don't want to hurt you,” he whispered. 

“You won't,” First Aid said. “It'll help, I promise.”

“I...” Blades curled around his team mate. “I don't think it's a good idea,” he said. 

“I don't care!” First Aid wailed, then his engine stuttered and he pushed away. 

Blades held on. “I'm here for you,” he said. “You're safe with me, I'll look after you.”

“Then spike me, please, frag me, _anything_.” He pressed close again, so tense his cables creaked. 

Blades kissed the top of his helm, trying to channel Groove, to be calm and grounded and gentle. But First Aid twisted and met his lips, and for a moment the team bond opened, and their world was nothing but need. 

Pulling back was one of the hardest things Blades had ever done. “This isn't,” he began, and First Aid stared. He tried again. “I don't know what happened when... when you were there, with _them_. I can't risk hurting you.”

First Aid winced, and rolled over. He tried a few times to speak before his broken voice could be heard. “I understand,” he said. He covered his face with his hands, his knees tucked up against his chest. When Blades touched his shoulder, he wrenched away. 

“Maybe if you talk to me,” Blades said, but who was he trying to fool? He was worse at listening than he was at reassurance. 

First Aid did not respond.

* * *

Vortex stretched, feeling his cables pull taught, testing his joints to their limit. His bondmate was upset, aroused, frustrated. But Blades was there, his presence a rounded kind of feeling on the edge of the connection. First Aid loved Blades, and that was OK. And First Aid would be OK for now, because Blades was with him.

It didn't stop Vortex wanting to go to him. And he would, he decided, after he had seen his team.

Blast Off sat by the door, reading as always. The light from the monitors cast patterns on his armour, and Vortex wanted to touch them. 

Blast Off glared. “You should be resting,” he said.

Vortex shrugged. He went over to Swindle. Still in stasis, he lay completely inert. He looked strange without optics, and Vortex couldn't help but touch the empty sockets. 

“Stop that,” Blast Off snapped. 

Vortex pulled back. “I want to see Onslaught.”

Blast Off nodded to the door opposite. “I'm not stopping you. The code is five five two nine B.”

“He's locked in?” It shouldn't have been a surprise.

“Of course,” Blast Off said. “This is a secure ward.” He activated his comm. “Brawl, be ready to leave in one breem.”

Vortex paused with his hand on the control panel. “Where are you going?”

“To base.” Blast Off stood. “There are things we need.”

“We're staying here?”

“Temporarily. It's nothing to be excited about.” Blast Off gave him a strange look. “The medical apparatus is not to be touched, do you understand?”

“Sure,” Vortex said. 

“If you break anything, there will be consequences.”

“I get it!” Vortex slumped against the door. “When are you coming back?”

Blast Off tucked the data pad away. “Soon enough,” he said. “Are your integrated weapons functional?”

Vortex nodded. The phrase was familiar, like he'd heard it before. His audials rang, the ghost of a crash, a distant boom. 

“Pay attention,” Blast Off said. “You will stand gard until I return.”

“OK,” Vortex said. Did Blast Off expect to be addressed as 'Sir'? But no, he seemed satisfied. At least, his engine rumbled, and the sound resonated with Vortex on a level he couldn't quite grasp. “I'll keep them safe,” he added, hoping for a repeat of that rumble. 

What he got was the briefest warming of the team bond before Blast Off let himself out. 

* * *

First Aid squeezed his hands between his thighs, knees to his chest and face to the wall. By rights, the shame should have been ice in his lines, an angle grinder on the knife-edge of his arousal. 

It did nothing. His fingers twitched, eager to slink higher, to push past his covers into intimate heat. He shivered, knowing Blades was watching, judging.

He wished Prime would make up his mind. He wished Ratchet would support him as Hot Spot had done. He wished Blades would relent, would reach out and gently lay him on his back, and spread his legs and fill him to forgetfulness. 

How he wanted to forget. 

Blades grunted and rolled over. First Aid risked uncurling. His team mate's rotors drooped, his back tense and vents cycling in a pattern so familiar it make First Aid's spark ache.  
How often they'd dozed like this, tired from a long day's work. First Aid would stroke the back of Blades' neck, and Blades would stretch and smile, and they would come together in joy and mutual affection. 

First Aid stifled a sob. Blades murmured, but his vents were cycling down, his cables relaxing. His presence in the gestalt bond morphed from anxious wakefulness to the first stage of recharge. 

First Aid waited a breem. Blades entered stage two, and the first phase of defragmentation. He needed it. They all did. 

Slowly, First Aid edged his way off the berth. 

Blades snuffled, dust in his intakes, and First Aid tensed. Taking a deep vent, he sent a tendril of warm safe comfort through the team bond. The heliformer did not wake. 

Walking quietly to the door, First Aid typed the code and snuck out into the hall.

It was stupid. Stupid and reckless and irresponsible, but so was staying. Blades cared for him, loved him. He couldn't lay there next to him, revved so hard his armour rattled, his spark a junkyard of unwanted scrap, and his every thought that wasn't bent on the past focused on Vortex. 

He leaned against the wall, heaving for air. He was so hot. He needed coolant, but his levels were fine. Hoist would say he needed a tune up, any excuse to keep him isolated, to hold him back from his responsibilities. 

Venting hard, First Aid forced his back to straighten. He couldn't let anyone see him like this, not least get close enough to make contact with his energy field. 

His vision greyed to one side, a scrolling list of messages from the spark bond, things he'd been trying to ignore: instructions to interface, notifications about the augmentation protocols, prompts to open the bond, to initiate a remote synch with his mate. 

His spark yearned for it, and he knew it wasn't him. The thought made him pause, hand on the wall and head bowed. A phantom pain rippled through his valve, hands pressed on his thighs. Something... happened? He couldn't remember. His spark swelled, the corona passing through its casing, easing into his chest. It felt good, a soothing calm, cooling in its own way. 

He fought against it, digging hard into his databanks, chasing the memory. 

Onslaught on the shuttle floor. Vortex holding him, forcing him. It had hurt, but the sense-memory was slippery as oil, moving his focus from his valve to the hardline connection, to the forced interface and his own unwanted overload. To Vortex bent over him afterwards, to the numbing gel and the rotary's arrogant self-assuredness that the spark-bond registered as caring. 

A warning flashed so briefly First Aid almost missed it: 'Mnemonic prioritisation activated, 70% complete.' 

Scrap no.

First Aid moaned, then clamped a hand over his mask. He couldn't think of the shuttle without thinking of Monacus. His valve nodes fired again, walls spiralling on phantom fingers. It made him weak at the knees. 

He didn't want it. He shouldn't. He remembered clinging to Vortex, legs spread around the rotary's hips, so open and vulnerable and exposed. His spark glowed, his engine purred. Text flashed: _Proximity to bond mate required._

First Aid cleared the warnings from his screen. He pushed away from the wall, heading for the isolation ward. Ratchet could be there, but it didn't matter. He wasn't a prisoner, no-one could stop him. He needed his bond mate. _No_ , he had a responsibility. He had to make sure Vortex was all right. 

It took his shaking hands two attempts before he entered the right code to let him into medbay. 

Just as he pressed 'enter', a voice echoed down the hall. “First Aid, hey!” A silhouette appeared against the security light.

First Aid froze. Not Smokescreen, please not Smokescreen.

The door opened. Vortex looked up from the seat by Swindle's berth, his joy a sunburst in First Aid's spark. 

The newcomer called out. “Hey, Aid, wait up!” 

“Uh, I...” First Aid glanced at Vortex, then at their unwelcome visitor. Not Smokescreen, thank goodness. Just Bluestreak. But someone else was close behind. 

“I didn't know you were still in the Ark,” Bluestreak said. He pulled up a few paces away. His armour was grubby, his engine plinking as it cooled. “What're you doing up so late? Ratchet hasn't got you working, has he?”

“I... I've got some things to do,” First Aid said. “I'm sorry, I can't stop.”

The second figure swerved around Bluestreak; Sideswipe, equally grubby, and smelling of smoke. “What's up?” he said. “Let me guess; Ratchet.”

“Um.” First Aid held onto the door frame; inside the room, Vortex approached. “It's not Ratchet. I just have, uh, things to do. I'm sorry, I shouldn't keep you.”

“It's no problem,” Sideswipe said. “Say, you want us to talk to him for you?” 

“He'll give you some time off,” Bluestreak said. “You shouldn't be working. He just needs a bit of a nudge every now and again.”

First Aid shook his head. “Uh, I... thankyou, no, it's OK.”

“All right,” Sideswipe said. He leaned in. “But remember, if there's anything else you want us to do, anyone you want us to deal with for you, we will. All you gotta do is say.” Beside him, Bluestreak nodded. 

First Aid stepped back, fumbling for the pad to shut the door. But it was too late, Sideswipe had spotted Vortex. 

“Aid,” Sideswipe said, “I think you should get behind us.”

Vortex moved into the doorway. His combat software had engaged, his weapons softly humming. 

“Please!” First Aid tried to step between them, but Vortex got there first. 

“What's going on?” he said. 

Bluestreak glared. “We should ask you that.”

“Nothing's going on,” First Aid said. It was an effort not to reach out, Vortex was so close. “It's OK, please.”

Sideswipe frowned. “You shouldn't be here. We'll take you back to your team. Come on.”

“He'll go where he wants to go,” Vortex said, and the low measured tone of his words clashed hard with the pictures springing from his combat simulation software.

First Aid tried to block them, but the bond was open, the prompts insisting they connect, interface, augment. 

“Sure,” Sideswipe said. “And that ain't gonna be with you.”

“I'm not a prisoner!” First Aid snapped. He ignored the stares, and plunged head-first into the worst lie since Vortex had taken him to Combaticon HQ. “I have some tests to run, to do with the... the spark bond. That's why I'm here. No-one's going to hurt me. Please, the sooner I do this, the sooner I can leave.”

Vortex's confusion quickly gave way to approval as the bond revealed the lie. 

“You have to do it now?” Bluestreak said. “It's the middle of the night.”

“It's timed,” First Aid said. “I have to take readings at intervals. From both of us.”

Sideswipe gave him a look that stripped his paintwork. Eventually, he huffed. “Whatever,” he said. “But he tries anything, you call me, OK?”

Vortex went to speak, but First Aid interrupted. “Thankyou,” he said. “I appreciate your concern.”

“C'mon.” Sideswipe knocked Bluestreak's arm, and the two set off in the direction of the washracks. As they turned the corner, the last thing First Aid head him say was, “Sunshine's gonna flip.”

First Aid cringed, then shivered as Vortex put a hand on the small of his back. It was too much. His balance glitched and his legs turned to rubber. He threw his arms around Vortex's neck and clung as tight as his motor relays would let him. 

“Let's go in,” Vortex said. “Before anyone else comes.”

First Aid nodded. He was shaking still, hotter than ever. The bond soothed him, but the closeness amplified the need. 

Vortex brought him into medbay, and locked the door. “I didn't know when I'd see you,” he said. 

First Aid murmured into his shoulder. His mask drew back, and it was all he could do to keep his panels closed. “Break room,” he said, his voice laced with static. “Third door on the left. Carry me.”

He stared into the grey of Vortex's paint. He didn't want to see Swindle, he didn't want to know the door past which Onslaught existed in stasis. 

The break room was sparse, small. A low table sat between a clutch of adjustable chairs, and a coolant dispenser stood in one corner. First Aid vented deep, shuddering with the thrumming of his spark. 

Vortex set him down in a chair, and knelt in front of him. His mask was off, his visor discarded. He smiled, and his energy field was nothing but joy. First Aid reached forward and kissed him. It was forceful, surprising; Vortex's pleasure was clear. 

“I want you,” he whispered, and First Aid leaned back, pulling Vortex with him. He spread his legs, his panels sliding open. His cable unspooled, his spike jutted up. 

Vortex fumbled to connect them, enthusiasm more than making up for his dearth of experience. He tugged First Aid forward on the chair, angling his hips, and filled him with a completeness that made their sparks whirl.

* * *

Blast Off stood in the ruin of Onslaught's office. Whoever Soundwave had sent, they'd done their job. The console steamed, the desk lie in ashes. The glass of the floor was cracked, and the ornamental ceramic tiles crunched underfoot.

The building creaked. Blast Off prepared his thrusters; it wouldn't hold for long. A hot wind whipped through the broken skylight, grazing the sensors on his wings. 

He engaged his comm. “Brawl, do you read me?” 

“I hear ya,” Brawl replied. “I'm in the War Room. They got all the gear. Computers are scrap, all the datapads are melted.”

“Check the labs,” Blast Off said. “Perform a full area scan every quarter breem. We can't be certain they didn't leave any nasty surprises.”

“On my way,” Brawl said, and cut the comm. 

Blast Off crunched his way out of the office, and flew in root mode across the chasm between buildings. His rooms had fared as well as Onslaught's, his furniture melted or burnt, his instruments destroyed. He nudged a sliver of crystal with his toe, the largest fragment of his star chart projector. It had been an antique, a relic from Altihex. He wouldn't see its like again. 

He glanced up at the dome of the ceiling. A fine web of cracks spread grey against the painted black. It hadn't fallen, not yet. It would. 

It put him in mind of other towers, the lofty heights for which he had been built, the spires and pinnacles where the alpha caste would never lack a clear view of the stars. Like his projector, they were gone, never to be rebuilt. 

He made a scan, checking that he and Brawl were still alone. A tiger stalked the crater floor, no doubt filled with scavenged meat. Swindle's human workers were all dead. 

His comm crackled. “They took the energon,” Brawl said. “All the scrap outta the warehouse. There's nothing left. Some equipment in the lab, a few of the little tube things the squishies use, that's it.”

“What about Swindle's office?” Blast Off said. A breeze stirred he ashes of his berth, the dust of incinerated insulation swirling around his feet. 

There was a wait before Brawl replied, and Blast off made another scan of the skies. “Looted,” Brawl said. “The safe's still here, doesn't look like they found it. They took everything else though. Swin's gonna be torqued.”

“Freedom comes at a cost,” Blast Off commented.

“Uh-huh,” Brawl said. “I'm gonna go get my tigers now.”

Blast Off made no move to stop him. This place had never been home. A temporary base, that was all, a makeshift pre-fab based on designs that had been old when he and the others had been consigned to living death. Shockwave had supplied the parts, shipping them in through the space bridge. The Constructicons had put it together. 

It was likely the Constructicons had been dispatched to pull it apart. What was left of them.

He moved down to Vortex's level, to the scorched and empty shell of a room where Blast Off and the rotary had attempted to educate the Autobot. The room where he had taken the data crystal from First Aid's arm. 

He huffed, and performed another scan. Dwelling on Vortex was a waste. Either the memories would take or they wouldn't; either Vortex would return to them – _his_ Vortex – or Blast Off would be forced to mould the new personality, to sculpt something decent from the mess the Autobot had forced upon them. 

Another piece of Cybertron lost forever. 

“Hey, Blast Off?” 

Blast Off sighed. “What is it?” 

“I can't find the crate things. They can go loose in your hold, right?”

“Like scrap they can.” Behind the charred frame of the chair he had used to call his, the long strip window looked out to the hazy sky. Birds flew in the dust, the sun a reddish ball on the arc of its ascent. “Either you find a containment unit,” he said, “or the tigers remain here.”

He glanced back at the window, ignoring Brawl's groan. The birds flocked, dark specks in the hazy sky. Their flight vectors were strange, organic. Predictable only to an extent. 

One of the birds was not like the others. 

“Find cover!” Blast Off snapped. “Incoming!”

“The frag?” But Brawl was already moving, the comm picking up the loud thud of his footsteps. 

Blast Off stood firm, his cannons humming. He shot out the wall and ran, transforming as soon as he hit the air. The rush of mass shifting hit with the surge of acceleration, and for a long and vital second his secondary systems were offline. 

Then his comms clicked back on, and his audials were full of the sounds of Brawl. 

“How many?” Brawl said. “I can't see them!”

“Missiles,” Blast Off replied. “Look to the Sun.” They were black dots still, a tight cluster. He'd seen one at first, but there were clearly more. There would be Seekers behind, maybe Blitzwing too. Maybe Astrotrain. His weapons came online, his targeting software locked on. 

He fired. 

The laser pulse bleached the desert and split the sky. The first missile exploded mid-air, some effect of the blast taking the second with it. But there were more, there would always be more. 

“I'm coming back,” Blast Off said. “Get in the air, and prepare for pick-up.”

“ETA?” Brawl yelled against the backdrop of splintering wood. 

“Eighty astroseconds,” Blast Off replied. 

The comm crackled, and something odd buffeted Blast Off's sensors. He increased his speed, only just inside the tolerances for low-atmosphere flight.

“...ke it sooner!” Brawl did not sound happy. “We got company!”

Blast Off didn't need to ask who. The sudden disturbance in the air, the presence on his scanners where before there was nothing; there was only one soldier it could have been. He fired up his cannons, watching for the slightest hint of purple and black. 

Light blossomed and sound followed. An explosion rocked the crater, taking down the tallest of the towers. Blast Off pushed through the shock wave, searching for Brawl, hunting for Skywarp. 

A shot hit his tail; the seeker appeared behind him. Blast Off climbed, faster than anything not built to reach escape velocity. Blast Off's engines roared, his cannons charging. Down on the crater floor, Brawl bellowed his name. 

Blast Off had no choice. He opened a line to the Ark and called for backup.


	16. Chapter 16

The alarm didn't sound in medbay. A light flashed in the isolation ward, small and discreet on a panel by the door. This was a call for the airframes, for Skyfire, for the frontliners. It wasn't a call for medical staff. 

First Aid rolled his hips, riding his bond-mate's spike while his spark whirled and spun in his chest. His optics were dim, his thighs stained silver. Beneath him, Vortex thrust; hands on his hips and a fire in his spark. Joy was only the start of it. He couldn't believe his luck. His mate had come to him, had drawn him in, had climaxed around him and in him and hadn't wanted to stop. 

And that wasn't all. With every overload, his spark unfurled. With each hot thrill, the bond revealed to him other moments just like it, moments from the past, of connection and closeness and fierce heated passion. Moments he and his bond-mate had shared. Memories he had lost with the reformatting. 

He smoothed the planes of his bond-mate's waist, loving the angle of his back, the tilt of his aft. First Aid ground onto him, slow and languorous, in no hurry to finish. Vortex reached up to stroke his face; his mate leaned into the gesture, his cheeks warm while his lips curved in a perfect shy smile.

Still the memories came. Shards of experience, tendrils of emotion. Incomplete, yes, but wholly absorbing: First Aid lost in ecstasy, overload after overload; the medic pinned and writhing, submitting, so open and vulnerable and so obviously lost in enjoyment.

Vortex revved his engine, tugging First Aid down for a kiss that was fiercer than he had intended. 

Perhaps his bond-mate hadn't hated him as much as he thought. 

First Aid tightened around Vortex's spike. He sat upright, pulling away from the kiss, his optics sharp now and bright, his valve nodes firing as the charge soared. 

“I never hated you,” he lied, but Vortex didn't care. A lie had seen them safe and warm, alone together for the first time since their battle with the Decepticons. A lie kept First Aid from hating him again. Lies had their place. 

Vortex took his mate's firm spike in hand, the base of his thumb rubbing over the tip. First Aid groaned, leaning back with his valve still full, and braced himself against Vortex's thighs. 

_'You like that?'_ A shard of memory spoke up, and Vortex's databanks fought to complete it. First Aid tensed and shuddered, a ghost of panic colouring his energy field. But it vanished with the echo of the memory, and the charge quickly rose. 

“I want to please you,” Vortex said. He bucked his hips, catching his spike just right against First Aid's ceiling node. His bond-mate keened, tensed again, only this time it was against the inevitable overload while he let the past roll through him. 

Vortex pushed into him, slow and gentle as he stroked his bond-mate's spike. “I want to go home with you. I want to make you happy.” _I'd kill for you_ , he thought, and how could that overwhelming urge to protect his spark-mate fail to please him?

“Faster,” First Aid whispered, and Vortex obliged him. The view was magnificent, just watching his spike slide deep into his mate made his spark melt in its casing. Bringing him gradually to overload was the best thing Vortex could imagine. 

Head back and lips parted, First Aid couldn't keep from crying out. His valve rippled, his spike discharged. Vortex could no more hold back from climax than he could prevent the heady flare of his spark. His vision greyed, a momentary brownout. The aftershocks were delicious, and he thrust as First Aid squeezed him tight, teasing out the pleasure as long as it could last. 

Neither of them remembered hearing someone in the ward outside. 

The break-room door slid aside. Ratchet stepped in, mouth open to speak. But whatever he had to say died on his lips. He stared. 

First Aid froze, his embarrassment as strong as any overload. “I, uh... I can explain!” 

“I'm sure you can,” Ratchet said, and First Aid cringed.

Vortex leaned up, enfolding his mate in his arms. He charged his weapons. “You're upsetting him,” he said to Ratchet. “Don't do that.”

Ratchet shook his head. “I'll give you two minutes,” he said, and left.

** *

First Aid sat with his hands folded in his lap, back hunched and head down. Ratchet had never seen him look so ashamed. Beside him, Vortex leaned forward, alert and hostile. It was only thanks to First Aid's gentle insistence that his weapons were not currently ready to fire.

Ratchet wanted to separate them. He'd tried; First Aid was meant to be with his team. He was meant to be safe. Instead, he'd snuck off to medbay to interface with his abductor. His abductor, whose personality he had obliterated, who he'd forcibly reformatted, and whose development he now wished to shape and guide. This mech who had hurt him, imprisoned him, who had almost certainly raped and abused him. Ratchet couldn't tell if it was First Aid's inherent capacity for forgiveness or some cruel mechanism of the spark bond that made this possible, but he didn't like it. 

“Vortex,” Ratchet said. “I came to see you for a reason.”

The rotary glared. He still had a dot of silver on his chest, and he didn't seem to care at all. 

Ratchet continued, tone level, watching them both. “Blast Off and Brawl went back to Combaticon HQ.”

“I know,” Vortex said. “Blast Off told me.”

“They came under fire half an hour ago.” 

A slight hitch of his vents; that was news. “I'm cleared to assist?” Vortex said, but Ratchet held up his hand.

“You're still not cleared for flight,” he said. “We've sent help, they'll be fine.” 

Vortex went to stand, but First Aid looked up at him, and something must have passed between them because he settled down again. 

“We don't abandon our allies,” Ratchet said. Even if they deserved it. “Listen,” he added. “I don't want to make things harder for you than they already are.” Certainly not for First Aid, and not – he supposed – for Vortex. The rotary really was young, no-one could fake that. Each word from his lips, each unguarded gesture, each emotion flashing like neon in his expression and his body language, they were all consistent with a new-formed personality. 

It was a struggle, but Ratchet knew that he needed to accept it. The Vortex who sat in his office broadcasting his abundance of feelings for the world to see was not the Vortex who had taken Ratchet's creation from him.

“What do you mean?” Vortex said. 

Ratchet sighed. “Spark bonds can be difficult,” he said. “And that's without your, ah, unique situation.”

First Aid covered his face with his hands. Vortex tensed. If looks could kill, Ratchet would be a heap of steaming scrap on the break room floor. 

“You're not separating us,” Vortex said. “You can't. He...” He closed his mouth, looking between Ratchet and his bond-mate. “Aid?”

First Aid's vents rattled, and he rubbed at his optics. “Don't make me leave,” he said. “Please.”

Ratchet tried to meet his creation's gaze, but First Aid just stared at his hands. 

“All right,” Ratchet said. “I'm going to let you talk to your teams before we take this any further. I...” He paused, a message scrolling urgent along the mid-line of his HUD: Prowl. He stood. “We'll talk about this later,” he said. 

First Aid looked up. “What's happening?”

“Stay here,” Ratchet said. “Both of you.” He shot off a quick reply, letting Prowl know he was _en route_. He turned at the door. First Aid looked as though the world had tried to crush him; Vortex had an arm around his shoulders, sparks flying where their armour met. Ratchet didn't want to leave them alone, but Prowl was already pinging him to answer his comms. 

“I'll look after him,” Vortex said, and he was so sure of himself that Ratchet almost believed him. 

Thank Primus First Aid hadn't asked about taking Vortex home. 

Prowl pinged him again, and Ratchet could do nothing but leave them alone.

* * *

“Your team don't know you're here,” Vortex commented. He stroked his bond-mate's helm, then shifted into a more suitable position when it became apparent that First Aid wanted nothing more than to fold up on his lap.

“They were in recharge,” First Aid said. “They don't understand.”

“They will,” Vortex said. 

“The way Ratchet looked at me... us... I can't...”

“He'll come around.” Vortex said. He sighed; without Ratchet in the room, the tension ebbed fast. He became aware of his interface hardware, a pleasant ache spreading through him in ripples. He slouched, tugging First Aid onto his chest. “Tired?”

“Mmm,” First Aid nodded. His engine gave a sad little hiccup, and the bond filled with insecurities and doubts. He had responsibilities; he should go back to Blades, apologise, go to Hot Spot, explain himself. He was doing everything wrong; all he'd shown Vortex was shame and hiding and denial. He needed to go home, they both did. 

“Soon,” Vortex said, and the insights dried up. 

First Aid murmured something Vortex couldn't make out. He wished they were connected. But no, not now. The interface had started something. Those shards of memory were still with him, tiny nuggets of truth slowly growing, an accretion of data from the crystal Blast Off had saved for him.

Integration was strange. The crystal was a part of him now, an extension of his databanks. He could access it if he tried, could feel the shape of the data and marvel at its volume. Even with the evidence of his chronometer, it had been hard to appreciate the vast span of time he had lived. 

Slumped over his chest, First Aid finally went into recharge. 

A dull thud echoed through the wall. Vortex tightened his grip on his bond-mate. If that was Ratchet, they would be having words. More than words, perhaps. Ratchet was beginning to look like an obstacle. 

Another thud, and Vortex noticed the panel by the door. A small red light was flashing. 

Slowly, he pushed up, cradling First Aid so as not to wake him. Lifting him without disturbing him was tricky, but Vortex managed it. He went over to the panel, and poked the button to the left of the light. 

White letters scrolled on the dark display. He didn't have time to read them. 

A blast reverberated through the room. Then another, quickly followed by the squeal of tearing metal. It sounded close. Vortex powered his weapons, his bond-mate in his arms, and went out into the ward. 

There was someone outside the door.

Vortex paused to listen. He could make out two voices, their speech patterns distinct although the words were muffled. The door was locked, Ratchet must have secured it on his way out. Good. 

First Aid stirred, and Vortex stroked his helm. “We're under attack,” he whispered. “I'm going to put you down. Stay with Swindle.”

For a moment First Aid clung to him, then his cables relaxed and he slid down to stand on his own two feet. He shook his head, optics booting and rebooting. “We need to barricade the door,” he said. 

“What with?” Vortex pushed Swindle's platform back, edging him closer to Onslaught's room. He didn't see the cables pull taut, but First Aid grabbed the monitor, and wheeled it close to the berth. 

First Aid checked the readouts, and Vortex up-turned an empty berth, than another, forming a makeshift wall. It was so weak it was laughable, but any cover was better than none. 

Across the room, the paint began to bubble on the inside of the door.

“Can we get him in with Onslaught?” Vortex said. 

First Aid shivered, and the bond emptied for one nauseating moment. Then the worry flooded back, and the medic nodded. 

Vortex punched in the code. Onslaught lay as still and silent as Swindle. His armour was cracked, a dim glow seeping from a fissure in his helm. First Aid didn't look at him. He didn't look at Swindle either, but kept his optics on anything and everything else as he and Vortex rolled Swindle and his monitor as gently as possible into the room.

“You should stay,” Vortex said. “You'll be safer in here.”

First Aid picked up an armour cutting saw, and shook his head. Vortex did not press the point. 

The lock engaged on Onslaught's room. The main door began to glow.

Crouching behind the flimsy barrier, Vortex aimed his weapons. “Get behind me,” he said. 

In the corridor, someone yelled. The glow faded, and muffled footsteps rang. 

Vortex pulled First Aid close and curled around him. The bomb went off. The door fell; the heaped med-berths toppled. Smoke poured into the room, and with it the distant shriek of alarms, the clatter of bullets and shouts and screams that had been too faint for them to hear through the wall. A shadow filled the door.

Vortex shoved his bond-mate behind him, and fired over the heap of fallen med-berths. 

The shadow ducked out again, turned, fired back using the ruin of the door jamb as cover. 

Another joined it, and Vortex hissed as a pulse caught an exposed rotor. He swung his blades down, and took aim again. But the break in fire was long enough for a sleek dark shape to dart into the room, heading fast for the far corner. 

Vortex couldn't shoot in both directions at once. Not if he wanted to hit his target. 

Two more explosions rocked the room. First Aid hunched lower; Vortex concentrated fire through the smoke into the doorway. 

“Is that all you got?” someone shouted. They whooped, and Vortex's fire was returned with interest. Fumes billowed, filling his vents and clogging his filters. Something tumbled across the floor, light and small. 

This time, Vortex wasn't quick enough to shield his bond-mate.

The heat hit him full in the face, the shock knocked him back. His vision glitched, and his audials rang; his sensor net rippled with brownouts, and his processor spun. First Aid slumped behind him, equally stunned, the one patch of clarity in any of Vortex's input streams. 

Vortex raised his right arm, hunting for a target in the haze. 

“They're down,” someone commented. 

“Take them.”

“You will not.” A new voice spoke, calm and fierce and determined, and Vortex knew it was Hot Spot before his scrambled circuits had begun to identify the vocal patterns. 

They were all there, his spark-mate's team. First Aid tried to stand, to be ready if Hot Spot should call them to form Defensor, but he got as far as his knees before the laser fire began to sing, and Hot Spot commanded him through their team bond to stay down. 

Vortex struggled to focus. His vision flickered on, then greyed, then came back a patchwork of cloudy colours. Just like the siege at Cornos Four, he thought, and for a moment he saw Brawl lying dazed in front of him, Onslaught standing tall in the breach, urging them on. 

He pulled himself out before the vision could find its way into the spark bond. 

“Streetwise!” First Aid cried, and Vortex was on his feet before he had time to think. His vision still glitched, but the picture he gained through the spark bond was crystal clear. He hit Streetwise's attacker full in the back, and scrabbled for a grip on his head. Streetwise hung limp in his enemy's arms, conscious but dazed, weakened. Something was leaking. Vortex couldn't tell what, the spark-bond wouldn't – couldn't? - show him. The Decepticon roared, twisting in Vortex's grip, trying to knock him back with his elbows, to throw him off. And all the while he kept a hold of Streetwise.

Vortex's audials continued to ring, and through the high constant tone he heard Hot Spot's orders, Blades' furious shouts. Laser fire still sang, but it was less frequent now, replaced by the clang and clatter of more intimate combat. 

Vortex lost his grip, and the Decepticon ran. He was a grounder, small, weak, no match for a Combaticon. Vortex sprinted after him, and made a swipe to grab him. The grounder was shorter than him, and his first swing saw his fingertips brush the top of the grounder's helm. His second gave him a handful of his enemy's face, and he wrenched for all the strength left in him. Beneath his fingertips, glass bowed and cracked. The mech screamed and flailed; Streetwise hit the floor. Vortex squeezed harder. His fingers plunged into the mech's optical sockets, rasping and stinging, hurting in a way that was completely new and yet so very familiar. 

He'd done this before.

Something barrelled into his legs, and he crashed against the wall. He saw a dark shape, low to the ground. It was carrying something in its mouth. 

Something broken. 

Vortex forced himself to his feet, but his enemy was gone. Behind him, the fighting had died. In front of him, Streetwise pushed up onto his knees, a trail of pink leaking from his side. 

He looked up at Vortex; his optics widened, his mouth gaping. “Look out!” he yelled, and Vortex spun as fast as he could, fists clenched and aimed, and the burn of a hot muzzle caught him under the chin. A blur of red floated in a sea of static. The weapon hummed.

“Run!” Vortex snapped, and hoped the scrabbling clanging sound behind him was Streetwise getting the frag out of there.

The owner of the gun laughed, soft and cruel. Vortex knew that sound, but no memories were triggered, no knowledge released. The gun jutted hard, shoved into Vortex's throat, and he stumbled. 

“Turn around.” The voice was calm, cultured. A little like Blast Off's, although the shuttle had always hated the comparison. 

Vortex swayed, turning as though to comply. Then he ducked and swung, and the mech shot him point blank in the chest.

* * *

First Aid screamed. He was trapped, a cage of red and white. Blades spoke to him, soft and low, calm warm words he didn't want to hear. He struggled and squirmed, and his screams became a harsh grating wail. Blades couldn't trap him, not now. He wouldn't. Vortex was in trouble, and he was First Aid's responsibility. Aid had to do something.

Blades didn't loosen his grip.

“They're gone,” Hot Spot said. “The Ark is clear.” He knelt on the floor, close to Blades. “Aid, I need you to listen.”

First Aid shook his head. He knew he was crying, howling. He couldn't stop. His spark churned, the corona flaring at random with a cruel stinging pain he completely deserved. It burned and ached, and all he could think was that Vortex had been shot, and Hook had taken him away. 

“Aid, please.” Hot Spot reached out to hold him, their team bond open, so full of love and need and fear.

First Aid pushed at Blades, resisted Hot Spot. His wailing faded to sobs, his vents rattling, his throat sore. 

Hot Spot persisted. “First Aid, we need your help. Streetwise is injured. Hoist and Ratchet are busy. But that's OK, isn't it? Because you're here, and you know what to do.”

It was as though his spark was being torn apart. Streetwise needed him, and he knew it was just a tactic, just Hot Spot trying to get him to calm down, to focus on his core function. But Vortex was gone, he was hurt, and it was all First Aid's fault. 

“We'll get him back,” Blades said, and First Aid cringed to think that he'd opened up to them. He shouldn't expose them to that.

Hot Spot smiled sadly. “If you don't let us in, we can't help.” 

“But Vortex-”

“There are procedures,” Hot Spot said. “Remember? We're part of something bigger here.”

The words alone might have sounded callous, but they came with a surge of warmth and hope, and First Aid clung to it as hard as he had pushed at Blades. Slowly, the panic ebbed, and his cables relaxed. He slumped against Blades, exhaustion hitting him like a steel bar. He fought it, dismissing the low fuel warnings as quickly as they appeared. “Streetwise?” he said. 

“If I let you go,” Blades said, “promise you won't run away?” He attempted a smile, trying to make light of it.

Choking a sob, First Aid nodded.

Streetwise sat awkwardly against the wall at the end of the corridor. Groove knelt beside him, pinching his severed conduit shut. 

First Aid let his core programming take over. He could cope with this. He sent Blades back through the clearing smoke for tools and a gurney. He sent Hot Spot to fetch energon. He slumped beside Groove, and held himself up through the repairs only because his frame had been built for this, and without his efforts Streetwise would suffer.

“It was Wildrider,” Streetwise said. “He caught me out.” He hissed as First Aid applied the clamps, and the team bond was awash with his nausea as Hot Spot lifted him onto the bent and dented med-berth. “Sorry,” he said, and Groove patted him on the shoulder. 

In the wreck of the main ward, the building's ventilation roared on overdrive. The air stank, but at least they could see. First Aid tried not to look at the door to Onslaught's room. He didn't want to wish that it had been Onslaught and Swindle who had been captured, and not Vortex. He wished it anyway.

“They took Lazerbeak,” Hot Spot said. 

First Aid nodded. “Ravage came for him.” Because they were team, he thought, and had to pause a moment to stop his hands from shaking. 

“Vortex saved me,” Streetwise said. “I... don't know why.”

First Aid hunched lower. He clipped out the section of damaged hose, and looked at the wiring around it. But his optics wouldn't focus, and so he just froze, staring.

“It's weird,” Streetwise continued. “He didn't hesitate, he just went for Wildrider and kept on at him until he dropped me. And then Hook was there, and-” He stopped, his energy field rippling with guilt. 

“It's all right,” Hot Spot said. “It's not your fault. How are you feeling?”

“Stable,” Streetwise said, as though their leader didn't already know. 

“Blades?” Hot Spot prompted, and First Aid resisted a shudder. They were going around the team, status reports. Because Hot Spot believed in all kinds of communication. Because Blades had a habit of nurturing his anger; because Streetwise could be reluctant to say things aloud if he could show them through the bond; because Groove found speaking a helpful outlet for his concerns. 

And there was a new reason, which Hot Spot wasn't trying nearly hard enough to conceal: because First Aid kept hiding things. 

First Aid shook his head, and forced his optics to reboot. The wires came back into focus. He zoomed in on them, looking for a breach in the insulation, but the moment of clarity had passed. He gripped the side of the med-berth, pretending he could go on. 

“Is this really the time?” Blades snapped. He kicked a chunk of shrapnel, and it stuck in the wall. 

“Yes,” Hot Spot replied, as calm as ever. 

Blades' engine revved. “I'm torqued,” he said. “Frustrated, angry, upset, betrayed, scared, spoiling for a fight I should be getting right now if you'd let me go after them. Take your slagging pick.”

Groove spoke without prompting. “Afraid,” he said simply, and took hold of First Aid's hands. How had he got so close? He radiated loving concern, but it was all show; First Aid could feel the terror, like a hidden layer of grit, sharp and grinding.

“We've got you,” Hot Spot said, and how had First Aid not noticed that he too was close enough to touch, to lean on. First Aid slumped, and Hot Spot caught him. Groove took his place at Streetwise's side, checking the clamps, making sure he wasn't leaking. 

Streetwise gently knocked his hand away. “I said I was stable.” 

First Aid tried to stand, but the floor had gone, and Blades was looking at him, and Hot Spot was holding him, and he didn't quite know which way was down.

“Blades,” Hot Spot said, “Take First Aid to my room. Streetwise, go with them. Wait for us there.”

“Presuming it hasn't exploded?” Blades said. The world rocked as First Aid was passed from one set of arms to another. 

“The isolation ward,” First Aid said. He couldn't begin to put voice to their names, but there were patients in the locked room. It wasn't ethical just to leave them. 

“I'll stand guard,” Groove offered. “I'll catch you up later.”

First Aid tried to reach for him. “But...” It wasn't the only consideration. There was an inventory to take, a disaster report to complete. The walls needed mending, the debris had to be cleared away.

But Groove had gone; the walls were moving. Streetwise walked slowly behind them, one hand on his side. 

“I have to-” First Aid began, but there were so many things he had to do, he didn't know where to start. 

Blades grunted a response, his energy field rife with frustration. “You and me both,” he said.

* * *

Blast Off had never liked getting his hands dirty. In the absence of proper maintenance equipment, fingers were so difficult to clean. Grit ground in his joints, sticking to his lubricants and working its way into each delicate servo.

Energon was hardly better. It disrupted his sensor net, seeping into his seams and over-stimulating his nodes. And it was flammable. 

Small fires still licked over his armour. His right hand smoked, paint bubbling and the motors semi-seized. At his feet, a Conehead turned to grey. He didn't know which one, he'd never bothered to learn their names. 

“That was so cool!” Brawl rolled over in tank mode. His treads were buckled, but it didn't seem to stop him. He transformed with an unhealthy squeal, and stepped heavily and deliberately on the Conehead's face. “You punched his spark out with your fist on fire! Just wait till I tell Tex.”

“I hardly had a choice,” Blast Off said. He unclipped a section of charred armour, and used his own coolant to douse the rest of the flames. Over by the ruins of B Block, the Autobots loaded their wounded onto the large white shuttle. In the absence of the Prime, Prowl appeared to be in charge. 

He also appeared to be heading their way. Blast Off considered transforming and taking to the skies. A few brief joors and he could be free of this accursed atmosphere, free from the gravitational pull of this disgusting organic heap. Free of this solar system, eventually. 

“Are you flight capable?” Prowl asked.

Blast Off nodded. 

“We leave as soon as possible. I suggest you salvage what you can.”

Brawl sped off towards the nearest building. Blast Off gave a dismissive huff. “I have what I came for.”

Prowl looked down, hands folded at the small of his back and his doors held still. “It was a diversion,” he said. 

“So I understand.” Blast Off forbore to comment on the Autobot jets. It was their unsecured chatter that had given him a piece or two of the bigger picture. 

“I suspected,” Prowl said, “when we received your call for help. Under Megatron or Starscream, the destruction of your headquarters would have been a simple act of revenge. But Soundwave...” 

Under Soundwave, the attack was a calm and calculated risk, a distraction to thin the defences of the real target. Blast Off nodded; with hindsight, it was obvious.

Prowl gave the Conehead's corpse some consideration. “Debrief is at fourteen hundred hours UST.” 

It was curious how someone so small could presume such a high level of authority. Prowl had the same defect of construction as Vortex's medic. 

He looked up at Blast Off. “I strongly suggest you attend. At the end of the debrief, Prime will call a council of war. With Onslaught incapacitated, your presence is required.”

“I'll be there,” Blast Off said. Even if Onslaught had been in full health, Blast Off would have expected a seat on any council of war. His status was not dependent on the gestalt. Even upstart grounders from Praxus should understand protocol. 

Prowl paused a moment, and Blast Off thought he might say something else, but he transformed and drove off in the direction of the passenger shuttle. 

“We going now?” Brawl yelled from the shadow of the ruins. He patted the top of a heap of crates. “I'm done.”

Blast Off sighed. “Yes, we're going now.”

* * *

“Can you hear me?” A whisper in the dark, the press of an unfamiliar energy field. “Come on, wake up.”

Vortex groaned. He booted slow, primary systems sluggish, secondaries reluctant to come online. 

A soft clang reverberated through his helm, and it was a moment before his sensor net notified him of a light tap on his face. 

Another clang. “You can do it. Get your optics on, that's it. Blink if you can hear me.” 

There wasn't much light. A face loomed over him, soft blue optics startling in the gloom. 

“It's me,” the mech said, voice low. “Smokescreen. We met in medbay, remember?”

Nausea rose, and Vortex shoved himself over, rolling gracelessly onto his hands and knees. He retched, grateful his mask was already retracted. A thin trickle of coolant hit the floor. Venting hard, he tried to close his lines; he couldn't afford to lose any energon. 

And he wasn't losing energon. It was a shock. He'd been shot, surely he should be leaking. He sat back on his haunches and looked down at himself. His HUD glitched, warnings slow to boot, but his optics ran more smoothly. Everything ached, from the tips of his rotors to the landing gear at his heels, but he could see no breaches in his armour. Cautiously, he patted himself down. 

“You're in one piece,” Smokescreen said. “They hit you with some kind of EMP ray or something. I don't know. How are you feeling?”

Vortex ignored the question. He completed his self assessment, and looked Smokescreen over. This was the mech who had led his bond-mate away from him. He looked like a civilian. “Status report,” Vortex demanded. 

Smokescreen's optics flickered. “Huh?”

“Status report,” Vortex repeated. His lasers were gone, his arms strangely light, but whoever had taken them hadn't checked inside his hip. He didn't open the panel, but the presence of a laser scalpel was reassuring. “You were awake before me, what do you know?”

Smokescreen shrugged. “Not a lot,” he said. “I came online maybe four minutes ago. I haven't seen or heard anyone, I can't identify any recording equipment, but that doesn't mean it's not there.”

Vortex stood and flexed his joints. Mobility was coming back, hopefully speed would too. He forced a reboot on his HUD, and began an assessment of the room. Cuboid, five mechanometeres by four by five. A single strip light buzzed behind bars in the ceiling, the only feature. The door was solid, locked tight. A grate gave a view of a corridor. It felt familiar, but Vortex couldn't place it. “Where are we?” 

“The Nemesis,” Smokescreen said. “I think. Feels damp enough.”

Vortex nodded. Underwater; that was consistent with the low temp and high humidity. Wasn't Brawl planning on blowing this place up? He tapped a button on his arm. “Comms are functional, but I can't get a signal.”

“Soundwave's jamming us,” Smokescreen said. 

Sitting again, Vortex tried to access the data crystal. He used to know this place – his old self did. Somewhere in his mind was the key to getting out. 

“You OK?” Smokescreen said.

Vortex gave him a look. “I need to get back.” First Aid needed him. Streetwise was injured, the Protectobots were weakened. At least his own gestalt still functioned. 

Smokescreen leaned back against the blank grey wall. “You and me both,” he said. “But the cell's solid, I've already tried. We'll have to wait until someone comes.”

“You know the way?” Vortex said. 

Smokescreen shrugged. “This place changes, they keep adding buildings and closing other parts off. If we can get to the tower, I can get us out.”

“All right.” It wasn't much of a plan, but it wasn't as though Vortex could think of anything else. He focused on First Aid, but his mate was not conscious. Sedated, the bond informed him. Safe. Blades was there, and Streetwise. Vortex could feel their concern and good intentions.

“Did, uh...” Smokescreen cleared his vocaliser and started again. “Did something happen between you and First Aid?”

“We're bonded,” Vortex said. What did he expect?

“Yeah, I know, I mean are you two...”

“Intimate?” Vortex glared. “Yes.” 

That shut him up.

“Don't come between us,” Vortex said. “Sure, I'm new, and sure I don't know the scrap you know, but I'm not stupid. You don't like what's going on? Guess what? You don't have to like it. It's none of your business.”

Smokescreen looked away. “It can't be easy,” he said, and Vortex noticed the slight shift in his centre of gravity, the gradual adoption of a more defensive pose. 

“What?” Vortex said. “Coming online with a spark bond and a gestalt bond and ninety thousand vorns on the clock, and no idea who I am and what I've done, in the middle of a war I know nothing about where there's nothing in my pre-installed data about the planet I'm on or the factions I'm allied with?” he snorted. “Not easy. Yeah, that sums it up.”

“I'm sorry,” Smokescreen said. “You really don't know anything about who you were?”

Vortex scuffed the floor with his heel, making the wheel of his landing gear spin. “Only what people have told me,” he said. “Hot Spot says he's not going to judge me for who I was. I don't give a frag what the rest of you think.” 

“So nothing at all?” Smokescreen leaned forward. “You don't remember Cybertron? The Golden Age? Nothing?”

Vortex allowed his engine to rumble. “Are you implying that my bond-mate can't competently perform a full system reset? Is that what you're saying?”

“No,” Smokescreen said. “I know he's good.”

“He's better than good.”

“I just...” Smokescreen sighed. He slumped, his wings hitting the wall. “It's just the old Vortex, he lied all the time, he manipulated people. He... You don't remember me, from before?”

“ _No!_ ” Vortex dug his heel into the floor. “Frag no. How many times I gotta tell you?” But the more hints Smokescreen gave, the faster his searches, and the smoother the integration of memory into his working data-banks. He saw a bar, spilt drinks, torqued staff. He saw Swindle in the corner, drunk and swaying, yelling at a mech whose face was unmistakable, whose frame was a Cybertronian version of the grounder body sitting across from Vortex in the cell. “Should I remember you?” he said.

Smokescreen laughed and shook his head. “The old you would have,” he said. “He never forgot. He – and Onslaught – they... scrap, I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's ancient history.”

Vortex waited. There was plenty he could have said, but something told him that silence in this situation would yield far more than any combination of words. 

“It was Swindle,” Smokescreen said. “We used to hook up, just for kicks. We went a couple vorns like that, it got serious. But he got involved with you... the old you... and Onslaught. It was heavy, big time criminal stuff. I was well out of my league, and Onslaught knew it.”

Vortex made an encouraging noise. Arguments came to mind, Swindle and Smokescreen in an endless line of hotel rooms, casinos, bars. Swindle storming out, Smokescreen left spark-broken and oh-so-vulnerable. 

“Onslaught broke us up,” Smokescreen said. “He saw I couldn't hack it, he didn't want me involved. He got you to warn me off. The old you. You guys were ex-military, I was just a civilian. What could I do?”

Vortex remembered it differently: the smell of high grade, the feel of well-designed grounder curves under his palms. Smokescreen had made it easy. “It's no reason to get between me and First Aid,” Vortex said. 

“No,” Smokescreen said. “It isn't. I just want you to know there's some history here. That's all.”

That was putting it mildly. Smokescreen's moment of weakness had only been the start. Eventually, Swindle had caught them, and the memory of his jealous rage came with a powerful sense of amusement. Vortex had been entertained. 

He resisted a smirk. It _was_ kinda funny.

“Is history gonna help us get out of this cell?” Vortex said. 

To his surprise, Smokescreen flashed him a smile. “No,” he said, “I guess not.”

* * *

The Ark was a mess. At the juncture of metal and mountain, a sizeable hole had been torn in the hull. The ship swarmed with Autobots. Workers Blast Off did not recognise laboured with rivet guns and sheet steel, patching it over. A human stood back a way, at Perceptor's clunky feet. He held a set of blueprints, and the two seemed to be talking. As though human interference would do any good.

Blast Off landed, transforming to disgorge his cargo. Primus, he needed a pressure washer. Behind him, the white shuttle landed, remaining in alt. Ignoring Brawl and his heap of crates, Blast Off made for medbay. 

The Autobot nest had certainly been stirred. Soldiers were everywhere. A few flinched when they saw him, startled, reaching for their guns, before conscious thought – or what amounted to conscious thought for an Autobot – engaged, and they relaxed. A few offered apologetic smiles. He elected not to dignify them with a response. 

He arrived at the isolation ward, access code prepared, but he needn't have bothered. The door was missing, a ragged chunk torn from the walls to either side. The floor was free from debris, and the air smelled scoured, but there was plenty of evidence of a fight. 

At the far end of the room, the green doctor was arranging things on a shelf. The wall behind it was scorched. 

“Vortex?” Blast Off queried.

The green medic jumped. “I'm sorry, old chap,” he said, “I didn't hear you come in. I'm afraid there's been a bit of an incident, but Prime has everything in hand.” He wiped off his hands, and headed over.

“What do you mean?” Blast Off said. “And where is Swindle?”

“He's safe,” the Autobot said. “I believe Vortex had the foresight to lock him in with Onslaught when they came under attack.” His visor dimmed, and he lowered his voice. “I know this is a rather personal question, but is your gestalt bond functioning properly?”

“Why?” Blast Off stood his ground, glancing at the door to Onslaught's room. 

“Your location notification subroutines don't appear to be working,” the green medic said. “You asked me where Vortex is. If your bond was functioning properly, you should already know.”

Blast Off glared. Could he not get a straight answer? But no, that would be too easy. “You presume too much,” he said. He caught Hoist looking at his damaged hand, and crossed his arms. Loath as he was to even acknowledge the team link, he accessed the dry statistics. “You allowed him to be _captured?_ ”

“I don't think 'allowed' is quite the word,” the Autobot replied. “As I said, Prime has it all in hand. May I take a look at your arm?”

Blast Off made an effort to calm the roar of his engine. “You may not,” he said. “Where is First Aid?”

“He's on medical leave,” the Autobot replied. “Please, sit down. I'll just take a quick look, and then you can be on your way.”

But Blast Off was already leaving.


	17. Chapter 17

“How are they?” Ratchet said. He sat with Hot Spot in the calm of his office. The lights were dim, the door locked. The Protectobot leader sighed. He looked up at Ratchet, and Ratchet could no longer see the Autobot officer, the brave commander of their finest gestalt. All he saw was his own young creation, so hurt and frightened and lost. 

“Not great,” Hot Spot said. “As good as can be expected. Blades is angry, Groove worries, Streetwise tries to be logical, but he keeps tying himself up in knots.” 

“And you?” Ratchet prompted.

Hot Spot looked down. “I don't know.”

The silence stretched, but Ratchet knew better than to prompt him again.

Eventually, Hot Spot spoke. “Aid was gone so long, and now he's back, but it's like he's still missing.” He put his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. “We want things to be like they were, all five of us. But they can't. We don't know what happened to him, we can't tell if we're going to hurt him or not.”

Ratchet lay a hand on Hot Spot's shoulder, reassurance in his energy field. 

“He won't talk to us,” Hot Spot continued. “Not about what happened. He's so quiet and careful, and I know he always was, but this is different. _He's_ different.” He placed a hand over Ratchet's. “Is it just the spark bond, or did... did something else happen to him?”

“There's no 'just' with spark bonds,” Ratchet said softly. 

“I know,” Hot Spot said. “In the battle, when we merged, it was different. I could feel the spark bond. I...” He paused, drawing air through his vents. “Bruticus was meant to provide backup for Prime.”

“But he didn't,” Ratchet said. “He helped Defensor instead.”

“We were in trouble.” Hot Spot shook his head. “It was bad. Real bad. But the bond... activated? I don't know how to describe it.”

“And Bruticus came to the rescue,” Ratchet commented; the words tasted bitter.

“He saved us,” Hot Spot said. “And today, Vortex saved Streetwise. If he hadn't, he would never have been taken captive.”

“You can't know that,” Ratchet said. 

Hot Spot drew himself up, and Ratchet sat back on his chair. 

“You want to give him a chance,” Ratchet said. 

The Protectobot leader shrugged. “What else can I do? I can't fight this. I felt it, Ratchet, it's not something you just shrug off. But what if it all goes wrong? I can't let Aid be hurt again, I just can't.”

“You know I'm no spark engineer,” Ratchet said softly. “Neither is Wheeljack. We can't break the code, and we can't un-write it.”

Hot Spot gave the slightest nod. “So we have to live with it.”

“One way or another,” Ratchet said. 

“I understand,” Hot Spot said. “I just... I wish I knew what happened.”

Ratchet stood. “Give him time,” he said. “He'll talk when he's ready.” He patted his creation on the back. “We need to be going, Prowl wants us all at the meeting.”

* * *

Blades was dozing in his chair by the berth when the buzzer rang. Across the room on a fold-down recharge platform, Streetwise murmured and rolled over. On Hot Spot's berth, First Aid lay still. At least the sedative was doing its job.

The buzzer rang again, and Blades staggered upright. “Shove it up your exhaust,” he growled as the buzzer sounded a third time. 

He opened the door, leaning heavily on the jamb, his best 'this better be good' expression settling on his face. 

A hulk of battle-hardened metal stood in the corridor. “Is Aid here? I been calling on his comm, but he ain't answering.” 

Blades rebooted his optics. “The frag?” 

Brawl loomed. “Ship's list thing said you were here. Hey, Aid! I got you something!”

“Woah!” Blades spread his arms to fill the doorway. “Indoor voice, for Primus' sake!” In the room, Streetwise stirred. Blades sighed. “He's in recharge,” he said. “You can't see him.”

Brawl rumbled. The crate growled. 

“What's going on?” Streetwise peered over Blades' shoulder. 

Brawl held the crate out. “It's gonna need feeding or something. I don't know. Organics.” He shrugged, his broken cannon barrel catching the light. 

“The frag happened to you?” 

“'Cons,” Brawl said, and shoved the crate at Blades' chest. Blades only caught it out of reflex. Brawl tried again to peer into the room. “Thrusters got his hand set on fire, and he punched Dirge through the spark, it was epic. I shot Skywarp.”

“Excuse me?” Streetwise said, while Blades just gaped. 

“You gotta like give them fuel or something.” Brawl gestured to the crate. “Ask your squishies, they know all that scrap.” He ducked to look under Blades' arm. “Hey Aid, I got your tiger!”

Streetwise leaned to peer into the crate. “Tiger?”

“Why ain't he waking up?” Brawl demanded. 

“He's not very well,” Streetwise said, just as Blades said, “Mind you own fraggin' business.”

“ _Is_ my business,” Brawl said. “He's adjunct, Ons said.”

That was a complicated word for Brawl, although Blades wasn't sure himself what it meant in context. “What?”

“Y'know,” Brawl said. “He's like, in our team even though he's not. Don't worry, we're gonna get Tex back, and then he'll be OK.” 

Blades had no idea what to say to that, and judging by the silence neither did Streetwise. They watched Brawl amble off down the corridor, then Streetwise tugged Blades back into the room and relocked the door. 

“Uh, it smells like a tiger?” he said. 

“What am I meant to do with it?” Blades raised the crate and looked in. Two pairs of eyes stared back at him, one pair a whole lot larger than the other. 

“I'll comm Hound,” Streetwise said. He glanced at First Aid. “Do you think they're serious?”

“What about?” Blades set the crate down on the floor. He shouldn't leave them in there, but he couldn't let them out. What if Carly or Sparkplug came by? 

“That adjunct thing,” Streetwise said. “I've read about it. It's not something people take lightly. If they really see him as adjunct, they'll expect us to treat Vortex the same.”

“Like what?” Blades said. He wiped his hands, and sat on Streetwise's fold-down berth. “Tell me.”

* * *

Smokescreen was a talker. Vortex liked that. In the dull monotony of their cell, the Autobot spoke about his life before the war. Vortex urged him on, and for each of Smokescreen's recollections, something new would unfurl in his own mind: vistas of rolling red as far as the eye could see, a cityscape tall as mountains, a river of light and song. He used his pre-installed data, and put names to them all: the Sea of Rust, Vos, Crystal City.

“What about you and Swindle?” Vortex said. “How did you meet?”

But Smokescreen froze, hand up for silence. “What's that?” 

Footsteps sounded through the grate in the door. Vortex got quietly to his feet. Someone was coming. Slowly, so as not to clang too harshly against the metal floor, he took position beside the cell's one doorway. 

Smokescreen arranged himself on the ground, playing injured, optics off and vents hardly cycling. 

The footsteps stopped; orange light appeared in the grate. “For frag sake,” a deep voice rumbled. “Breakdown, get over here.”

“Ugh.” A second set of footsteps sounded, lighter than the first. 

“Cover me.”

OK, so there were two of them, not one. Vortex tried to indicate to Smokescreen that he should take the smaller mech, but he had no idea if the Autobot could see him. The door cracked open, the muzzle of a gun protruding through the gap. 

“I know you're hiding,” Breakdown said. “Get against the wall, now!”

Vortex stood rooted to the spot. Breakdown was familiar, _really_ familiar. His data-search engaged, reaching further into the crystal. Integration was coming faster now, and Vortex brought Breakdown's image to mind. A combiner, like him. But not like him. A loose jumble of neuroses and personality flaws, Breakdown was a microcosm of his team. 

He was also one fifth of the behemoth who had almost killed Defensor. 

Vortex lurched forward and grabbed the gun. He hauled, and Breakdown yelped. His feet squealed against the floor; the mech behind him raised his own weapon, but he was far too slow. 

Then Breakdown revved his engine, and Vortex doubled over, seized with nausea. His fingers slipped from the gun, his every bolt and connection shaking apart. 

Smokescreen wailed, a miserable sound, and Vortex realised with dread that no help would come from that quarter. 

“Knock it off,” the larger mech said. “You're gonna make me purge.”

Something clanged, and Breakdown swore, and the nausea and the shaking stopped as quickly as it had begun. 

Vortex tried to push up, but his gears wouldn't turn and his motors whined without actually helping him to move. 

“What's the matter?” the larger mech said. He strode into the room and kicked Vortex hard in the side. “Can't you get up?” 

“Stop it!” Smokescreen cried, but Breakdown revved his engine again and the world turned to static.

“Frag sake!” The bigger mech yelled, but Breakdown had already finished. The larger mech's foot came into view, and Vortex made an estimate of the thickness of his armour, the force he would need to use to disable the joint. The soldier's name came to him – Astrotrain – along with a host of other details, his weaknesses and fears, a dozen different ways to make him scream in the dark. 

“Think you're so great now?” Astrotrain snarled. “Do you?”

Vortex fought for control of his frame. He'd hurt Astrotrain. The old him. He knew it as wholly and perfectly as he knew his own name. He remembered the light in that isolated place – and hadn't it been easy to lure him in? He remembered the smells, the haptic buzz of a glitching energy field hot over circuits pushed to their limit. He remembered a rule broken, a line crossed. Astrotrain had approached Blast Off, and that was not to be borne. 

The things he had done, his pre-installed data labelled them wrong, abhorrent, taboo. But he had done them, and he had enjoyed every astrosecond as the massive triple-changer writhed terrified beneath him, and Vortex tore from him everything he would ever need to know.

He'd used skills he no longer possessed, those talents learnt under the Mayhems in the earliest days of the war. Locked up now in the data crystal, but he could get them back, frag yes. All he needed was time. 

“Pathetic,” Astrotrain snarled, and kicked him hard in the hip. It didn't matter. His grin, that mattered. The way he sought and found and kept optical contact. The way he moved his lips, forming words he couldn't say with Smokescreen close enough to hear. 

_Did you miss me?_

Astrotrain grabbed a hold of his throat, hauling him up and hurling him against the wall. 

Breakdown coughed. “Re-remember what Soundwave said.”

Vortex lay where he'd fallen, and Astrotrain rumbled. He aimed his pistol, not the weapon Vortex remembered him favouring. “I should scrap him.”

“Later,” Breakdown said. “Soundwave said-”

“I don't give a frag what Soundwave said!” But Astrotrain didn't shoot, and he didn't approach Vortex again. Instead, he went over to Smokescreen and, holding him down with one massive hand, he clipped a set of energon cuffs around the Autobot's wrists. “Get up,” he said, and nudged Smokescreen with his foot. 

“Get fragged,” Smokescreen spat back, and Vortex had to admire his bearings. If only his frame would respond well enough that he could do something with the brief distraction. 

He couldn't. The moment passed, and Astrotrain dragged Smokescreen to his feet. “The boss wants to see you,” he said, and pressed the muzzle of his gun to Smokescreen's head. “Now move.”

Breakdown hung back, standing in the doorway. He stared, apparently waiting. Vortex gathered his strength; this was his chance. But as soon as Astrotrain's footsteps faded, Breakdown's tiny engine roared, shaking Vortex apart from the inside out. He hissed through his teeth and his vents, and strove not to scream. 

Finally, Breakdown stopped. “Traitor,” he spat, and the door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

Hot Spot was in recharge when Ratchet came for First Aid. Blades and Streetwise sat in a corner, playing cards. Groove occupied the middle of the floor, quietly meditating. Hot Spot slept deeply, his large engine silent and his vents humming in perfect rhythm with those of his smaller team mate wrapped in his arms.

First Aid was in the final stage of defrag. No longer sedated, he twitched and moaned, but did not fully stir. 

“It wore off about an hour ago,” Blades said. 

“Can you give him a while?” Streetwise asked, and Groove added, “He's eighty-nine percent complete. Defrag will be over soon. He gets headaches sometimes, if he hasn't completed the cycle.”

“I know,” Ratchet said. “How long?”

“Six minutes,” Streetwise replied. “Maybe seven.”

Ratchet nodded. “Why does it smell of organic in here?” He looked at Groove, on the understanding that he was the most likely culprit. 

But it was Streetwise who answered. “Brawl came over,” he said. “Someone told him where we were. He brought Aid a tiger. I'm pretty sure we don't have a permit for that.”

“Two tigers,” Blades said. “A big one and a cub. We commed Hound, he's got them.”

“Tigers?” Ratchet said. He remembered Vortex saying something about a tiger, but surely Brawl wouldn't go to all that effort to bring them here. 

Groove looked up. “They see Aid as an adjunct.”

Ratchet tried not to let his surprise show. Opposite Streetwise, Blades gave Ratchet a furtive look. 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Ratchet said. “I'll be in my office, let me know when Aid's out of defrag.”

He waited at the end of the hall. Blades slunk out of the room thirty seconds later, and headed straight for him. 

The heliformer didn't speak; he never did at times like these. Instead, he extended a data cable from his wrist and held it out, his mouth set in a stern line and his optics a shade away from confrontational. 

“All right,” Ratchet said. He made the connection, and accepted the data package: the impressions of a memory, timestamped the previous night, several hours before the attack. 

“I shouldn't have gone into recharge,” Blades said, and his tone was as defensive as his glare. “It's my fault he was in medbay. I just...” He shrugged. “I just thought you oughta know, before you see him again.”

Blades turned on his heel, and Ratchet let him go. He stomped down the corridor as though nothing could touch him. But Ratchet had helped to build him; he saw the slight sag of the Protectobot's rotors, his bristling brittle sense of pride. 

Ratchet waited until he was back in his office before he opened the file.

* * *

In the absence of Breakdown, Vortex gradually regained the use of his limbs. He pushed himself upright, leaning against the wall. The kicks had dented him, the strange vibrations from Breakdown's engine had loosened a few internal parts. Nothing he couldn't fight without, but he looked forward to the time First Aid would fix them for him.

He focused on the bond. Aid was sleeping, in defrag. His team was with him. Safe, then. Good. 

He tried to locate his own team, but only dry statistics came through. They functioned, give or take a few scrapes and crumples. Swindle was in stasis, and Onslaught... Vortex spent a while trying to decode the data. Onslaught was being operated on. 

Vortex calmed his engine; the Autobots possessed medics other than his bond-mate. Ratchet was competent, and there were others too, their names on the cusp of recollection. 

But First Aid was theirs, _his_. Aid should be the one to repair his team. 

Vortex gave a little more thought to having words with Ratchet. Something should be done, it had to be. And not only about Aid's role in relation to the Combaticons. Ratchet obviously hadn't approved of them interfacing. The shame still echoed in First Aid's spark. Vortex had to do something about that too. Prove to Ratchet, perhaps, that he could be trusted.

He sighed. He'd lost his chance. Smokescreen was gone, the cell was locked. There was no way out save the door, and Vortex didn't have the means to escape. 

He entertained a brief fantasy of getting out of the cell. A guard would come, and he wouldn't misjudge it this time. He'd work his way through the dank, damp corridors of the underwater base, staining the hallways pink with the fuel of his enemies. He would rescue Smokescreen, kill Megatron once and for all, return triumphant to the Ark. Ratchet couldn't fail to accept him then. 

A noise interrupted his thoughts: footsteps, sounded small, a grounder. They paused outside his cell, and a pair of red optics peered in. 

Vortex waited for the click, the slow swing of the door. 

It never came. 

The optics watched him, the rest of the individual's face hidden by the flat bulk of the door. Vortex moved, and the mech flinched. He stared, and Vortex stared back, then he stepped aside and left the way he had come. 

He was the first, but he wasn't the last. More came, in ones and twos. They didn't try to get in. They just stared, and whispered amongst themselves.

* * *

“You couldn't sleep,” Ratchet said. He took the chair closest to the door, and First Aid knew it was to discourage him from leaving.

Outside the examination room, Wheeljack supervised the reconstruction of medbay. The sounds of rebuilding came muffled through the wall. In the gaps, softer clangs and the dull hiss of welding could be heard: Hoist completing Onslaught's repairs.

First Aid suppressed a shudder. He nodded. 

“I gave you a mild sedative. It was enough to help you enter defrag. How do you feel?”

What a question. First Aid clutched his hands together between his knees. “A little better,” he said carefully. “Thankyou.”

“Better than?” Ratchet prompted. 

First Aid drew a shaky vent. He wanted Vortex. No, he didn't, the spark bond wanted him to want Vortex. He had to remember the difference. “I can't help it,” he said. “I... It makes me do things, want things. Please Ratchet, it...” He caught his creator's gaze, and the wash of shame was sickening. “I just wanted to see him. I didn't mean... I'm sorry you had to see that, I...”

“It's OK,” Ratchet said. “It's not easy, I can see that.”

“What's wrong with us?” First Aid cried. It was an effort to stay in his seat; he felt overcharged, restless. Vortex was in trouble, he couldn't just sit here, doing nothing. 

Ratchet sighed. “That's the problem,” he said. “I can find nothing wrong with you.”

“What? That can't be right, surely there's something.” 

“Your bond is working exactly the way it was designed. There's no malfunction.”

First Aid shivered, bringing his knees in tighter on his hands. “But there has to be, it...” He failed. The thread of thought was slippery, and difficult to catch. But he had to catch it; he _was_ malfunctioning. “It's re-prioritising my memories,” he blurted. “I can't... I can't remember things. Not how they happened. Not about Vortex and... things... that happened, oh Primus!” He hid his face in his hands. 

Ratchet spoke, something about being sorry, but First Aid's spark whirled so fast, his mind spinning, and he couldn't grasp a hold of the words. 

He flinched at a touch from memory, but could no longer remember how or when it had happened. “I'm losing my mind,” he said, and his voice was hardly audible. 

“You're not,” Ratchet said. “Aid, look at me.” His expression was sombre, his posture tense. “That's it. Tell me where you are.”

“Medbay,” First Aid replied quietly. “Examination room four.”

“You're safe here, Aid, you're with me. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

Something tightened in First Aid's chest. “It's too late for that,” he said. When Ratchet only waited, he drew a deep vent and forged on. “They hurt me. I don't remember how, I don't know... Vortex and... their commander. I can't...” He cycled another vent, his spark spinning. “I made a deal.” He focused, he had to do this. “With Onslaught.” He coughed static, and shuffled in his seat, straightening his back. “He won't hurt me again. I can fight my own battles. But... I can't remember.”

Ratchet went quiet for a while. First Aid stared at his hands, and listened to the sounds of reconstruction outside. 

Eventually, Ratchet spoke. “Do you want to remember?”

First Aid shook his head. “Does it matter?” he said. “You can't do anything about it.”

“Not the spark bond itself,” Ratchet said. “True. But I might be able to write a patch to disable access to your search and storage. It won't fix what's already been done, but I can stop it happening again.” 

“It makes me want things,” First Aid said. “You... saw that. Can you write a patch for that?”

Ratchet sighed. “Memory re-prioritisation is an emergency protocol, designed to activate when one bonded partner is under extreme stress. The urge for... closeness, for interface, is something very different.”

“That's a 'no', then,” First Aid said. He lifted his chin and tried to unclasp his hands. “I know the difference,” he said. “I know what's me, and what comes from the bond. I just need to be stronger.”

“Oh, Aid.” Ratchet shook his head. “You're expecting too much of yourself. When the Combaticons have gone-”

“Gone?” First Aid tensed. “No, not all of them, you can't. Vortex is coming with me!”

“You just told me you can tell the difference between what comes from you and what comes from the bond.”

First Aid leaned forward. “This comes from me! You were there at the meeting, you heard me out. I'm responsible for him. He has a chance now, he could be a good person. We can't abandon him to _them_. They're... they're not good people, and you know it. They'll turn him into what they want him to be.” 

“They're his gestalt,” Ratchet said. “He needs them. He'll learn from them no matter what.”

“He needs _me_.” First Aid tried to force the tension from his cables, but it didn't work. “I'm responsible for him. I don't think you've let yourself take in exactly what I did to him-”

“He abducted you,” Ratchet said. “He hurt you.”

Why did Ratchet have to be so infuriating? And how had this turned into an argument? “That person is dead. _I killed him_.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“That's how it is!” Something of Brawl must have seeped in through the bond, because First Aid didn't remember ever being so aggravated. “You can't seriously believe he's still the same person.”

“I don't,” Ratchet said. “But he's wearing the same frame. He has the same team, the same core personality matrix, the same spark.”

First Aid caught Ratchet's gaze and held it. “I can help him to be better this time.”

“How?” Ratchet said. “Will you resist the bond? Can you honestly tell me you'll always be able to separate your needs from those of the spark bond?”

First Aid hesitated, but when he spoke it was with a force of defiance. “Yes,” he said. “I will, because I'll have to. You can't get rid of this, you can't save either of us. We're stuck with each other no matter what, and I will _not_ spend my life bonded to... to an individual as cruel and depraved and corrupt as Vortex used to be. Not when I can do something about it.”

“I think you're taking on too much,” Ratchet said.

First Aid sighed. “What if I don't?” he said, and this time he managed to keep his voice low and steady. “What if he leaves, and I stay, and they turn him into the person he used to be. He'll come for me, I know he will, and I won't be able to stop myself. You'll lose us both.”

Ratchet looked as though First Aid had reached out and struck him. “His team won't let him go,” he said.

“They'll have to,” First Aid replied. “He _wants_ to come with me.” 

Ratchet opened his mouth to reply, but evidently thought better of it. 

“He has another function,” First Aid said. 

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know.” First Aid spoke softly. “All war-builds of his generation had one, didn't they? A secondary function, so they had something to move on to once their military service was over. He isn't just a soldier, he has the potential to be so much more.”

“Like what?” Ratchet said. “I thought his secondary function was interrogation.”

“It's psychotherapy,” First Aid replied. He cringed as Ratchet failed to control his expression. “He doesn't know,” he said, staring again at his hands. “I saw it in his code, but it hasn't manifested. It won't, not without the right stimulus.”

“And you want him to realise this potential?” Ratchet said. 

“I want him to live a good life!” First Aid cried. “I want him to have that chance.”

“And what if he doesn't?” Ratchet said. “What if no matter what you do, he turns out bad all over again?”

Something in First Aid snapped. “What if he doesn't come back?” he yelled. “What if he dies in their prison, and I never get the chance to help him? What if he comes back, and he does everything right, and you still try to come between us, and you only end up driving us away?” He put a hold on his vocaliser, hoping his meaning would sink in. When it looked as though it had, he continued. “I've always wanted what you wanted for me. But not this time. It might not work, but I've made my mistakes, and I'm trying my best to live with the consequences. Please, Ratchet, I need you to let me... no, I need you to _help_ me do this.”

For a moment First Aid was sure Ratchet would leave. But the silence spun – filled with the noises of construction from outside – and his expression softened. “I'll see what I can do.”

* * *

The impressions from his spark-mate were frequent, but fragmentary. A stern face dominated, a surge of frustration. But there was hope there too, and a warmth of affection that made Vortex smile even in the chill damp of his prison cell.

He focused on his mate, and the formal data of his vital signs became a flood of real-time input. The cell floor vanished, the ceiling evaporated; he was in a white room, watching and waiting while Ratchet answered the door. The green medic was there, and for a moment Vortex saw him through the filter of First Aid. His name was Hoist, and he was kind and skilled and caring. Hoist spoke, and the words were like a melody heard through solid steel. Ratchet left with him, and First Aid remained, staring at his hands, but his mind was somewhere else. 

With him, Vortex realised. In the cell. 

It only lasted a moment, but the sense of connection was profound. Vortex smiled; his aches vanished, his spark thrummed. It was contentment and well-being, it was the feeling after overload when his mate sprawled over him and traced the scratches in his paint with his fingertips. 

Another gawker approached the cell door. Vortex ignored them; First Aid was so much more interesting. Hadn't he hunted him once? Perhaps. It was all history now, his past life. His bond-mate wasn't for hunting. He was sweet and tight and beautiful, and Vortex resisted the siren pull of memory, the urge to delve into his data-banks and see how the spark bond had changed him. How it had changed them both. 

He must be the new-build, for now. For his bonded. 

A red light flared, optics at the grille in the door. Their owner made the kind of soft sound that Vortex had once delighted in eliciting from others. He drew back from the bond; there was someone else in the corridor. 

He brought his legs in under him, crouching, ready to leap. The laser scalpel found beneath his armour nestled in the palm of his hand.

Footsteps echoed, but no shadow crossed the gaps between the bars, and no light of optics brightened the passageway. 

A click and a hiss, and the door to Vortex's cell swung open. 

On the threshold, a mech slumped. Pink pooled around him, maroon armour turning grey. 

The air lit up with a grid of fine blue lines. The lines became light and then colour. 

“I've got him,” the Autobot said to someone else out of sight, while the colour gave shape to his armour, and the stylised curves of his alpha caste frame became solid. He held out a gun, stock first. “Here,” he said, and his voice ignited a thousand memories. “You're going to need this.”

* * *

“Here's what's going to happen,” Ratchet said. He stood just outside Onslaught's field of vision. Hoist had done his duty, and the Combaticon was whole again. Awake, aware, but his repairs needed time to integrate; his frame would be harder to move, his body not yet responsive.

The huge grounder engine turned over in a growl. “I'm listening,” Onslaught said. 

The clarity of thought expressed in those two words sent a chill through Ratchet's struts. He locked his joints, and stood proud, hands at the small of his back, any number of tools within easy reach. “We'll complete your repairs,” he said. “We'll fix up Swindle. You'll find another base, and you'll do it fast, but Vortex is staying with us.”

“You lost him,” Onslaught said. “You allowed him to be captured.”

Ratchet frowned; impressive, Onslaught obviously had a grip on their team bond. Unlike his subordinates. “A rescue is underway,” Ratchet said. And Primus, _please_ , let it work. “You've claimed First Aid as adjunct to your team. The Protectobots will claim Vortex in kind.”

Onslaught's fingers curled, a fist slowly forming. His visor gleamed like the sunrise, and his energy field was so strong it sent ripples through Ratchet's own sensor net. “Will?” Onslaught said. “Your choice of tense is telling.”

Ratchet pulled his own field tight to his armour. “They _will_.” 

“The medic will assist us when required,” Onslaught said. “He understands his obligations. You will not have it all your way.”

“I know what you did,” Ratchet said, and for a moment he could convince himself the Combaticon was afraid. The threat hung between them: Ratchet free to move, skilled and quick; Onslaught shackled by the speed of his self-repair. Then Onslaught slowly, haltingly, turned his head to bring Ratchet solidly into view. 

“Do you really?” he said. “It must be difficult, that you found this out after you gave your voice in favour of the treaty.” His visor flared, his engine rumbling. “We have amnesty, as does our adjunct. All our past sins, real and imagined, have been erased.”

“Your point?” Ratchet said. 

“ _Here_ is what's going to happen,” Onslaught responded. “You will not interfere. That is all. This is between our two gestalts.”

“I won't let you corrupt them.”

Onslaught huffed, his condescension as obvious as his amusement. “And will you disallow them from diluting us?”

Ratchet resisted stepping away. 

“I thought not,” Onslaught said. “We are all Cybertronians here, even your unpatriotic creations, and we will act accordingly.”

* * *

The moment of peace stayed with First Aid through the busy corridors of the Ark, and back to Hot Spot's temporary room. He settled in the chair by the berth, alone save for his recharging commander. Blades and Groove were outside the Ark helping with rebuilding. Streetwise watched, barred from manual labour until his own repairs fully integrated, assisting where he could.

It didn't take them long to notice him watching. Their relief was palpable, although the undercurrent of frustration and concern was still present. 

“Hey there,” Hot Spot said, his voice still drowsy and full of static. He yawned to clear his vents, and reset his vocaliser. “Thankyou,” said.

“What for?” First Aid pulled back from the bond again; but he didn't close himself off, not this time.

“For that,” Hot Spot said. “For coming back to us.” He pushed up, and sat on the edge. “It feels like something good happened,” he commented.

“It's hard to explain,” First Aid replied. And did he really want to? He got up onto the bunk with Hot Spot and leaned against his leader's side. Hot Spot immediately put an arm around him. 

“Anything you want to talk about?” he said. 

“Not really,” First Aid said. “Not now.”

“That's OK,” Hot Spot said. “Whenever you're ready.”

First Aid nodded, careful not to clang his helm on Hot Spot's side. His leader was warm and solid, and this close First Aid could hear the quietest noises of his engine, even the soft thrum of the containment field that surrounded his spark chamber. 

“I spoke with Ratchet,” First Aid said.

“And?” 

“He's going to help. He thinks I'm making a mistake, but I've already made so many.” 

“Hey,” Hot Spot said gently. “It's OK.”

First Aid pressed close to team mate. “I just... I'm responsible for Vortex,” he said. “I didn't... I don't want to hurt you all, I'm so sorry. Don't tell me it's all right, please.” He twisted under Hot Spot's arm and pressed a hand to his leader's chest. “I know you,” he said. “You don't have to be brave for me.”

Hot Spot covered First Aid's hand with his own. He smiled. “I could say the same to you.”

First Aid nodded, and let the protective calm of his leader's energy field wash over him. “It's worse when I fight it,” he said, and as soon as the words were out he regretted them. But the moment of peace granted by the spark bond had faded, and the fears and frustrations and needs were beginning to show again. 

Hot Spot held him loosely, making it clear he had the option to move, that he wouldn't be trapped. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

“The spark bond,” First Aid said, and his lines constricted. “I think it's settling, I think... It's not something I can just turn off, there are no controls. Maybe I'll learn some, maybe, I mean, Ratchet said there's something he can do, but it won't mean I can just forget about being bonded. I can't ignore it.” He thought of Vortex in the cell, but he wasn't in the cell any more, was he? The panorama had shifted, walls moved by at a swift pace, he had a gun in his hand. “He's escaped,” First Aid whispered. 

“Excuse me?”

“He's escaped,” First Aid repeated. “Or... he was rescued?” His spark churned, exultation and dread. What if he died out there? What if he never came back? The thought made him nauseous, and First Aid was surprised to find that he didn't – couldn't – hope, for his own selfish sake, for his team and his faction, that Vortex would die a hero's death on the Decepticon base, that all ties to the Combaticons would be effectively and permanently severed. 

“What can you see?” Hot Spot asked, and although his energy field rang with fear and confusion and as fierce a protective urge as anything First Aid had felt from his bond mate, his voice was calm and without judgement. 

First Aid shook his head, and nestled into the crook of Hot Spot's arm. “Not much,” he said. “Fragments. It's like the team bond, only...” _More_ , he thought, but he couldn't say it. Team was everything, it was their world. 

“Different?” Hot Spot suggested, and First Aid edged open the team bond, showing his gratitude. 

“Yes,” he said. “Different.” Not fuller, not more intense, not connected on a level he hadn't imagined possible before. Just different. 

“Can you stop seeing it?” Hot Spot asked. 

“Sometimes,” First Aid admitted. “But... I don't think I want to. If something happens to him, I...”

Hot Spot shifted, his engine changing pitch. “He's in good hands,” he said. “Trust me.”

First Aid twined their fingers together. “It's strange,” he said, “but I've never really thought about it before: we're the ones who have secrets. Blades and Groove and Streetwise, they don't have command level intelligence they can't share with the team. They don't keep confidential medical records in their long-term storage.” 

“But they understand,” Hot Spot said. 

“About that, yes, but this?” First Aid added. “I told lies, I kept things from you. The wrong things. How can I expect them to understand?”

Hot Spot gently flared his energy field, a comforting warmth over First Aid's plating. “What do you want them to understand?”

First Aid shuddered, and took his optics offline. “Why I can't abandon Vortex,” he said. “Why, after everything that's happened, I can't just let him go. Why I... Oh Primus, I don't think I could ever be without him.”

There was a pause, and First Aid focused on the fluctuations of his commander's energy field, the reassuring presence of his bulk. 

After a while, Hot Spot spoke. “In what way?” he said carefully. 

First Aid cringed as his spark burned hotter, the bond urging him to reach again for that sense of connection, that moment of oneness and peace. “Every way,” he answered. “And I know they won't understand. They... they're so afraid of hurting me, but they don't know what it's like to be bonded like that. And I... the bond, it amplifies... needs, physical... you know this, we tried to cope.”

“I remember,” Hot Spot said.

“I asked Blades to interface with me, last night. But he... I know why he wouldn't, but it hurt, and I... I'm so ashamed I left him there.” First Aid shuddered, a thin trickle of need seeping into the bond. “I waited until he was in recharge, and I left. I... went to medbay. Vortex was so pleased to see me. I couldn't help myself, I didn't want to stop. But Ratchet, he walked in on us.”

“Uh, I see.” Hot Spot shook his head and started again. “Is that what you and Ratchet talked about?”

It was a few seconds before First Aid trusted himself to answer. “Mostly,” he said. 

“And you don't know how you can help us to understand?” Hot Spot said. 

“How can I?” First Aid looked up at him. “It's all so twisted up.”

Muffled footsteps sounded in the hall outside, laughter rang. First Aid tried not to be aggravated by them; their happiness was not a judgement on his own situation. 

Hot Spot sighed, and leant down to kiss First Aid on the top of his helm. “We'll find a way,” he said.

* * *

Onslaught sat on the edge of the med-berth and flexed his arms. The joints were stiff, but he was newly oiled, and movement became smoother with each rotation.

By the door, Blast Off lurked, arms folded and visor fixed on Onslaught. “You were incapacitated,” he said. “I took charge.”

Another flex of his right arm, and Onslaught began on his shoulders, rolling the joints, feeling out the new metal bedding against the old. “I am no longer incapacitated,” he said. “Make your report.” 

Blast Off's visor brightened, and he stepped up to the berth. “I leave in two joors,” he said. “Sooner should the situation demand.”

Onslaught went to stand, but Blast Off put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. Onslaught's fists balled, and his cables drew tight. 

“I am your commander,” he said. “You will make your report.”

Blast Off vented a huff, short and sharp. “This again?” he said. He raised his hand, and Onslaught prepared to block him, to barrel into his chest and knock him down several rungs. But the blow did not come. Blast Off extended a cable from his wrist, and held it out. “There's something you need to see.”

For a moment, Onslaught just stared. It had been years since Blast Off had willingly invited a connection, even one as detached and innocuous as this. He tugged the plug closer, the cable unspooling, and clipped it into his arm. 

Blast Off waited, his energy field as hostile as ever, his part of their shared mindspace sealed off, the door locked and bolted. 

The connection engaged, and Onslaught allowed for a brief astrosecond the tug of the team bond, urging them to intimacy. Once he would have given in, but too long a road had passed beneath his wheels since then.

“You burned that bridge,” Blast Off said, and Onslaught growled low in warning. 

“Your insubordination,” Onslaught began, but the data packet loaded, and the clip began to play. He saw dark fingers tinged violet, a personality component exposed, a crystal glowing, slotting into place. He saw the shell of his interrogator, heard the confirmation in the memory of Blast Off's words. Onslaught looked up, meeting the shuttle's bright optics in a rare, clear moment of perfect understanding. “Well done,” he said, and Blast Off tore back the connector. 

“I do not require your approval,” he said. “And I certainly don't need your praise.”

“Nevertheless,” Onslaught said, but he left it there. His consciousness split, new plans forming, new ideas grew from this new intelligence. “What else?” he said. 

“Our base is gone,” Blast Off said. “I salvaged what I could.”

“What of Megatron?”

“Unknown.” Blast Off inspected his plug, and drew the cable back into his wrist. “Starscream is dead.”

Onslaught leaned very slightly back, and began to test the joints in his legs, one at a time. He never forgot the shuttle's superior size and mass, his strength, and he refused to be cowed by it. “Are you certain?”

“His trinemates are in mourning,” Blast Off said. “They broadcast his energy signature in the traditional manner.”

“It could be a ruse.”

Blast Off gave him a condescending look, as though cultural traditions were inviolable and war was just a petty distraction. “I know how to read the songs of Vos.”

Onslaught wasn't prepared to argue. “The Protectobots will claim Vortex as adjunct,” he said. 

Blast Off nodded. “I suspected as much. The medic will not let go.”

“Neither will Vortex.” Onslaught completed the final rotation of his left ankle, and tested his fingers one by one. “Presuming we get him back.”

“The Autobots dispatched Mirage and Jazz approximately two joors ago,” Blast Off said. 

“Prowl's plan?” Onslaught said, and Blast Off nodded. “And your part in this?”

Blast Off's canons made a subtle adjustment, pointing up at Onslaught. “Mine is fury,” he said in a dialect of Altihex that had probably never before been spoken on Earth. It took Onslaught a moment to remember exactly what he was quoting. “Mine is the sky, mine is vengeance.”

“They will be nothing,” Onslaught continued, the speech patterns unfamiliar, the vibrations they spread through him wholly nostalgic. “They will be dust.” 

“We will not abandon Cybertron,” Blast Off said, switching dialects to the Kaon speech he had used before the war. “When Swindle is repaired and Vortex is whole again, we will reclaim what is ours. That is still our aim.” 

It wasn't phrased as a question, but Onslaught recognised the subtle deference in Blast Off's tone, the new silence of his weapons. “Of course,” he said. “Cybertron will be ours.”


	18. Chapter 18

They paused by an ancient airlock to scavenge ammunition from the dead. Vortex knew the ship, schematics unfolding on his HUD as the memories rolled through his mind. He remembered Mirage in the Golden Age, an alpha in a sea of alphas while he played at being Blast Off's bodyguard for diplomatic receptions and high class parties. 

It was becoming easier. The further integration progressed, the less intense the reaction when an individual recollection was triggered. His history amassed, the puzzle becoming gradually less fragmentary. 

“Ready?” Mirage said, his vocal patterns so familiar, so similar to those of Blast Off. Vortex could feel the shape of the collected events, the memories prompted by that association. But no files sprung open, no sense-recollection rose up to claim him. He no longer needed to relive each new discovery to appreciate the details of his own past. 

He nodded, raising his weapon, prepared.

Mirage set out. Vortex would have gone the other way. He could smell the fumes of groundframes; the Stunticons were close. He would have liked to have hunted them, but he had a part to play, and First Aid was watching. 

Voices sounded, and Mirage raised his weapon. “Take cover,” he hissed to Vortex. The grid lit up around him, and Vortex stepped sideways into a shadowy recess. The Autobot vanished, and it was impossible to see exactly where he had gone. But his footfalls still rang, soft as they were. 

Bombshell rounded a corner, Skywarp at his heels. Vortex held close to the shadows, optics dim, and fierce excitement welling in his spark. His quarry moved quickly: three astroseconds until they'd reach his hiding place. 

Vortex crouched, weapon aimed. Skywarp was the priority – disable his warp field, put a bullet through his CPU. 

But Skywarp stumbled, hand to his throat, and Vortex abruptly changed his target. He leapt at Bombshell, bullets flying before he'd properly locked on. Holes ripped through the lines at the Insecticon's neck, dents blossomed on his armour. The bullets ricocheted, smashing Skywarp's cockpit glass, clipping Vortex on the arm. Bombshell roared, meeting him head on. The Insecticon was strong, heavy. The ground rose up, and Vortex lost his grip on his gun. The weapon spun across the floor, and Bombshell's optics blazed with triumph. But Vortex had a backup, and the flare of understanding as the laser scalpel plunged through Bombshell's optic into the delicate circuitry of his central processor was beautiful to behold. 

Vortex smirked, and heaved the body off himself. The Insecticon still struggled, voice burbling through a gash in his throat, limbs flailing and hands clawing at Vortex with no strength behind them. _Don't look_ Vortex thought, as he cracked the back of Bombshell's optical orbit and severed the connections to his personality component. 

“Where did you get that?” Mirage said. He became visible just as Skywarp completed his slow slide to the floor. His fine hands gleamed with oil. 

Vortex shrugged. “Old me had it,” he said. He reached for the gun and stood. “Next?”

Mirage almost smiled. “This way.”

Again, it wasn't the corridor Vortex would have chosen, but he wasn't in full possession of the facts. Left to his own devices, he would have stripped Skywarp down. He'd always fancied a set of null rays. With weapons like that, he could take the base. 

But the Autobot had a plan. He darted left, then left again, taking a circuitous route, but one Vortex knew as well as he knew the scratches on the glass of his feet. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be. 

“Medbay,” Mirage replied, and they were taking the long route, through the older portions of the base, the parts hastily constructed in the early years of the Decepticon campaign on Earth. The walls were thinner here, the portholes few. The seams had a tendency to leak, and the passageways had been largely abandoned in favour of the ancient ship or more carefully constructed additions. 

“Smokescreen?” Vortex prompted, just so First Aid would know he had asked. 

“It's in hand,” Mirage said. “He'll be fine. Brace for impact in five, four...” 

Vortex let his programming take over. He held fast to the thicker of the walls, feet apart, head down, and rotors flat to his back. When the world shook, he was ready. The walls creaked, but held. Cries sounded ahead, a storm of feet running in the opposite direction, towards the source of the quake. He slunk after Mirage, vision clear and balance perfect. Frag, his core programming hadn't worked so well in aeons. He sent a pulse of warm affection through the spark bond, gratitude for something First Aid would never know he had done. 

Entering medbay was easy. Only Hook remained, and Mirage was already easing his body to the floor when Vortex turned the corner. 

“Guard the door,” Mirage said. “This shouldn't take long.”

Vortex did as he was ordered, like a good little new-build. Hadn't Spinister always told him to live up to others' expectations until he had them exactly where he wanted them?

Then Mirage pulled a screen from the end of medbay, and Vortex froze. 

Megatron lay in stasis, his armour polished to gleaming, his helm open and a dozen different cables anchoring him directly to a bank of machinery. Cables hung too from his waist and hips; a hose clipped onto his auxiliary fuel intake, feeding him energon a drip at a time. A glass dome sat over his spark, magnifying the glow, painting the room with a weak and watery purple light. 

Mirage moved in, hand raised, face grim. 

Vortex glanced from Mirage to the corridor. He couldn't miss this; not for his himself, not for his team. But a shadow moved in the corridor, and he realised too late he should have been alert. 

Ravage sprung, claws in his face, one hip-mounted rocket discharging and carving a gouge through the edge of his thigh. He fired, and the shots went wild. The cybercat was too close, too fast. And she was not alone. 

Soundwave sprinted through the door, weapon raised. He fired once, and Mirage cried out. Vortex tore at Ravage, getting a grip as her claws split his armour. He thrust a hand down her throat, and she flailed, choking. He swung her around, throwing her as hard as he could against the wall. 

Soundwave fired again; the Autobot's optics shattered, his fuel tank split. Vortex swung his gun around, trained it on Soundwave, but Ravage was up again and on him, her teeth shearing through the muzzle. 

Something else moved in the corridor. Vortex seized Ravage around the throat, holding her over him, squeezing until the metal buckled. It didn't stop her from tearing at him, holes opening in his armour, his visor cracking under her claws. But it did stop Soundwave from getting a clear shot.

And it gave Jazz just enough time to shoot Soundwave clean in the back. 

The air shimmered, the shock wave hitting Vortex before he'd even registered it wasn't laser fire. He tugged Ravage close to his face, a shield for his data banks. 

It wasn't enough to knock the cybercat offline, but the moment of confusion was all the time Vortex needed to tear her claws from his chest. She snarled and scrambled; he lost his grip, and she spun away down the hall. 

Smokescreen fired after her, but she was gone. 

“That's enough, Smokey,” Jazz said. “See to Mirage. Vortex, get up.” He paused by Soundwave's fallen frame, a quick glance, then he moved on towards Megatron. “Frenzy's in the control room, he's jammin' our signals. Vortex, I need you to get a message to the Ark: activate Plan B.”

Vortex stood. He fetched his gun, the grip slick. “We heard you,” he said. He accessed the bond, watching his spark-mate come back to himself with a shock. Feeling Hot Spot warm and comforting beside him, as First Aid tapped a code into the comms array on his arm and made the call. 

Smokescreen knelt by Mirage, hands poised, but he didn't dive in. “Jazz?” he said softly. 

“Help them,” Jazz said to Vortex. He moved quietly, quickly. He stepped over Mirage, ignoring Smokescreen's pleading look, and disconnected the life support cables from Megatron one by one. 

Smokescreen looked to Vortex, then back to Jazz. “He's going grey! I can't see why.” 

“Let me,” Vortex said, but they were First Aid's words. He nudged Smokescreen aside, and opened the alpha's armour. “I need clamps and a welding torch. Now.”

“What? Where?”

“This is a medbay,” Vortex snarled. “Go fraggin' look.”

Smokescreen scrambled to his feet, and Vortex made a closer examination of Mirage's injuries. His arms tingled, and his hands moved of their own accord. He let it happen, marvelling at his bond-mate's skill and speed, awed at his capacity for adaptation, and the depth of his knowledge. 

Smokescreen returned, left again, fetched more supplies. 

Jazz stepped closer, leaning up on his toes, reaching for the bulk of Megatron's open chest. He stayed there a while. Vortex heard only the shattering, saw only the change in light as the violet slowly faded. 

“Primus help us,” Jazz said quietly. “It's done.” He crouched beside Mirage. “Can we move him?” 

Vortex nodded. “Carefully,” he said, and again his words were supplied by First Aid. “He's stable. We've bought him some time. You've got two hours to get him to Ratchet.”

Jazz gave Vortex the strangest look. “Can you carry him and fight?”

Vortex grinned through the shredded tatters of his mask. “Sure.”

* * *

First Aid slumped, and Hot Spot held him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Mirage,” First Aid replied. “Two hours, I... can they get him out in time? I have to speak with Ratchet.”

“I'll do it,” Hot Spot said. “It's OK.”

“No.” First Aid drew himself up, straightening his struts. He stood, and took his leader's hand again in both of his own. “I know what's happening,” he said. “I can see it, I can... Megatron's dead.” 

“He's... what? Are you sure?”

“Jazz unplugged him. I saw... His spark-light failed, I saw his frame. He's dead. Mirage has two hours, I need to explain to Ratchet, I don't know if enough of the equipment here survived the blast, we might need to take him back to HQ.”

Hot Spot activated his comms. “Hot Spot to Ratchet, please pick up.”

“Ratchet here,” the response was immediate. “I was about to call. Prowl wants you both in the control room, now.”

* * *

Ratchet hustled Hot Spot to the rear of the room. By Teletraan One's immense display, Prime debriefed First Aid. Prowl stood close by, data-pad in hand.

“I've never seen anything like it,” Hot Spot said. He spoke quietly, his words for Ratchet's audials only. “It goes further than gestalt. He let me watch, he fixed Mirage through Vortex's hands.”

“Stabilised,” Ratchet corrected. He sighed. “I'm sorry, that wasn't called for.”

“We're all on edge,” Hot Spot said. “You don't have to apologise. I've been thinking... about what you said.”

“You'll take Vortex as adjunct?” Ratchet said. 

Hot Spot nodded. He put a hand on the closest stalagmite, as though to steady himself. “We need a balance of power,” he said softly. 

Ratchet huffed. “I like it about as much as you do, but what other option is there? Vortex _is_ cognitively and functionally a new-build. I've run all the tests I can, he's _new_. Even if he wasn't protected by the treaty, we can hardly punish him for things he hasn't done.”

“So we take him on,” Hot Spot said. 

“We do,” Ratchet agreed. “And we watch, and we step in when we need to. We can guide them, together. Aid as well. He's going to need it.”

Hot Spot watched his team mate; Aid stood to attention, but he was tired, drained. “It feels like an exercise in damage limitation,” he said. “I should ask Red Alert to fill out a risk assessment.”

“You either laugh or you cry,” Ratchet commented. 

“I think we're needed,” Hot Spot said. He crossed the room in time to provide First Aid with someone to lean against. The medic stood carefully, back stiff as he rejected his exhaustion. Ratchet had seen it a dozen times. 

“He needs a refuel break,” Ratchet said. 

“We all do,” Optimus replied. “We reconvene in fifteen minutes. Prowl, contact Blast Off, and get an ETA from Cosmos. Skyfire, be ready for launch in twenty five minutes. Ratchet, do you have everything you'll need?”

“We'll see,” Ratchet said. 

First Aid vented deep. “Permission to provide assistance?” he said. 

Optimus looked to Ratchet before answering. “I'm afraid not,” he replied. “I've asked too much of you already.”

Ratchet was convinced First Aid was going to argue, but the Protectobot closed his mouth again and gave a solemn nod. “I understand,” he said.

* * *

“You're planning to go into battle,” Hot Spot said, as they walked slowly back to their room. “I don't need the team link to see that.”

First Aid sighed and rubbed the seal around the edge of his visor. “Vortex is hurt,” he said. “Mirage could die. Smokescreen has a fractured arm. I know he can use it, but it's only a matter of time before it breaks. There will be more casualties, they need me.”

“Not like this,” Hot Spot said. “We'll refuel, get some rest. You'll be ready for them when they get back, you can help them then.”

“I'll refuel when we're in the air,” First Aid said. 

“You can't go against Prime's direct orders.”

“He can,” a smooth voice said. Blast Off caught them up, a cube in his hand. Half drained, it filled the hall with the heady fumes of shuttle-grade energon. “Under Cybertronian law, a bonded pair have the right to provide mutual assistance where no crime has taken place. Not even your Prime can refuse him.”

“How do you know this?” Hot Spot said. 

Blast Off gave him the most dismissive look he had ever experienced. “I read.” He turned that look on First Aid. “Out with it,” he snapped. 

Hot Spot went to get between them, but First Aid caught his arm. Discomfort flared in his energy field, and vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. “Please bring him back safely,” he said. 

Blast Off huffed. “You have two breems until I leave the Ark. If you present yourself on time in the launch area, I will condescend to allow you space in my cargo hold.”

“Uh, thankyou,” Hot Spot said. “But he's staying here.”

“Of course,” Blast Off said, and walked away. “He always does exactly what you tell him.”

* * *

“He didn't turn grey,” Vortex said to Smokescreen. They jogged through the hallways, Jazz up front, Smokescreen to the rear. Vortex carried Mirage over his shoulder, the mech's innards dripping down his back.

He'd always rather fancied being covered with Mirage's alpha caste fluids, but this was not the scene he'd envisaged. 

“What, Soundwave?” Smokescreen said. “Yeah, he's not dead. Dunno if we _can_ kill him.”

“You don't open up a carrier mech,” Jazz said, glancing back. “They're rigged. Unless you got all the time in the world, you shoot and you hope.”

_Yes_ , Vortex thought, _I remember_ , and this time the moment of recall failed to stir even the slightest anxiety. He'd connected to First Aid, the bond had brought them together, and the medic hadn't recoiled, he hadn't registered fear or disgust or concern. Instead, he'd stuck around, with no hint of realisation.

His presence was very welcome. 

The lights failed, and Jazz slowed. Vortex could just make him out in the glow of his own visor. Then a brighter red lit the hall, and a siren began to wail. 

“Busted,” Jazz said. “All right, stick close, we're almost there.”

There were two corridors to go, but the siren wailed, and the base echoed with distant footfalls. Jazz broke into a sprint, and Vortex held tight to Mirage, trying to reduce the impact to his broken components. 

The floor juddered, and Vortex stumbled. He gripped the wall and forged on, faster now. 

“The tower's rising!” Jazz called out. They turned a corner, the final stretch. At the end, the floor slowly rose. Jazz transformed, accelerating hard. Smokescreen followed suit, flipping onto two wheels. He hit the base of the wall with his free tires, using the steep incline as a ramp. Jazz transformed again, his momentum seeing him clear through the gap between the floor of the tower's landing bay and the corridor ceiling. He landed in a crouch and rolled, gun blazing. Rubber screeched as Smokescreen hit the floor and skidded to a halt. Then he was out of view, and Vortex was the only one left.

He booted his thrusters. No flashy moves for him, just a swift flight through the gap. 

The tower floor was chaos. Vortex ducked behind a pile of crates, and lay Mirage carefully on the floor. Then he prepped his weapon, aimed, and opened fire. Astrotrain fired back, Scrapper beside him, Dead End to the rear. 

Smokescreen huddled to Vortex's left, Jazz had vanished. They needed to vanish too. The crates failed fast, disintegrating under concentrated laser fire. 

The floor shuddered, and Vortex's tank lurched. They'd stopped. The scream of lasers and the rattle of bullets wasn't enough to hide the boom as the gears engaged. Chains clattered, and the doors opened onto sky as blue as his bond mate's spark.

“Now!” Jazz yelled, and Vortex had time to spot him dropping from the ceiling onto Astrotrain before the sky was again obscured. Scrapper backed away, trying to get a bead on Jazz. Dead End went with him, still firing on the crates. A shot got through, hit Vortex in the knee, but Smokescreen thumped him on the shoulder. 

“Mirage!” he shouted. “Get him to Cosmos!”

Vortex scooped up their wounded, and tried to stand. He slipped, his knee burning, and tried again. Silhouetted against the bright blue sky, Cosmos resolved from rounded shadow into a ship the like of which Cybertron had never produced. 

Vortex ran, and Smokescreen covered him. The loading ramp seemed so far away, but Vortex slid and scrambled and pushed ever on, and suddenly he was there, and Cosmos welcomed him with an odd shift of his energy field. Smokescreen followed him in, hitting the floor hard, and rolling. 

A cry of rage split the air, and Jazz appeared in the doorway. “No room for four,” he said, and Vortex heard the familiar whine of root mode thrusters powering up. Jazz grinned through someone else's energon. “I'll see myself out.”

“Prepare for take-off,” Cosmos said. 

The floor again shifted, and Vortex dropped to his knees. He gave his frame over to his bond mate, watched as he lay Mirage out flat on the floor, as his hands deftly reached to re-secure clips and check conduits for leaks. 

Smokescreen groaned, but his energy field when he brushed against Vortex was exultant. “Can we have visual?” he said.

“Of course,” Cosmos responded. “What was I thinking.” A long screen lit up, curving the full circumference of the hold. 

It was real-time view, Vortex realised, three hundred and sixty degrees of sky and sea. Jazz flew Decepticon-like beside them, showing clear on the screen, matching their pace. 

“Nice,” Vortex said.

“Thankyou,” Cosmos replied. 

“No,” Smokescreen said, “thank _you_. We'd be halfway to the scrapyard if you hadn't come for us.”

“Don't mention-” Cosmos paused. “I'm picking up multiple contacts about five klicks behind us and gaining. Jazz?”

“I hear ya,” Jazz replied, his voice clear over Cosmos' PA. “Skyfire's on his way, backup's coming. Just fly.”

Smokescreen frowned. “You sound worried, Jazz,” he said. “What can you see?”

“Nothing we can't handle,” Jazz said, but the spaceship's energy field shimmered with something other than confidence. “Cosmos, speed up. Skyfire's _en-route_ , don't wait for me.”

“I'm not leaving you behind!”

“Who is it?” Smokescreen demanded, and Vortex stared at the view-screen as though five klicks would reveal anything more than specks at this resolution. 

“It's Shockwave,” Jazz said, “and he's not alone.”

* * *

' _Mnemonic prioritisation complete._ '

Speeding in alt through the Ark, First Aid struggled not to skid on the smooth metal floor. Couldn't think of that, Ratchet would fix it. Yes, that's it, Ratchet, think of Ratchet. And Vortex, his hands in Mirage, guided, stabilising. 

He decelerated long enough to regain traction, then spend down the ramp and into the warm light of evening, Hot Spot close on his tail.

On the Aerialbots' long landing strip, Blast Off sat in shuttle mode. Skyfire had already launched, his ion stream clinging to the cloudless sky; the soldiers were gone. 

“Are you sure about this?” Hot Spot said. 

First Aid transformed, and it felt like he was falling apart. He clung to Vortex, to Mirage and the emergency measures essential to keeping him alive. The notification scrolled again, ' _Mnemonic prioritisation complete_ ', and he dismissed it. His energy field was a mess, his attention split and his processors aching. Brawl caught him looking and waved; Blast Off made a scan, the only acknowledgement he could expect. 

“I'm sure,” First Aid said. He was shaking; even before he spotted Onslaught his hands were trembling and his armour clattered at the seams. 

“Fifty astroseconds,” Blast Off announced, and Onslaught picked up the final crate from the pile. Brawl stepped up into the cargo bay, and took it from him, handling it in the careful way Brawl reserved for explosives and tigers. 

First Aid vented deep. 

“You don't have to,” Hot Spot said, but Onslaught was heading over, and First Aid felt the burn of fear and humiliation without being able to grasp the reason why. 

“So you're coming,” Onslaught commented, addressing First Aid. He obviously took First Aid's inability to respond as assent. “And you, Commander?” Onslaught said to Hot Spot. 

“Yes,” Hot Spot said. “If there's space.”

First Aid stared at him, but couldn't find the words.

“Twenty astroseconds,” Blast Off said. “I am not merely expressing numbers, this is a countdown to lift-off, and if you are not on board when I reach zero, you _will_ be left behind.”

First Aid jolted into action. He had to move. Away from Onslaught. Why Onslaught? He didn't know, just... something. No, it was gone. 

“You heard him,” Onslaught said. “Load up.” He stalked back to the shuttle, and First Aid followed without thinking. 

Hot Spot stuck close. “I'm with you,” he said. 

First Aid didn't have the wherewithal to argue. He stepped up into the shuttle, and a flash of nausea gripped his tanks. He doubled over, trying not to gag, but the feeling was gone as quickly and completely as it had come. Brawl stepped up, grabbing him by the arms. 

“I gotcha,” he said, and First Aid didn't think he was going to let go. But his grip loosened as soon as First Aid tried to move.

Hot Spot sat awkwardly, but Onslaught gave him a look. “Officers traditionally sit up front,” he stated. 

“Not this time,” Hot Spot said. “But thankyou.”

Onslaught nodded acknowledgement, although not – First Aid thought – approval, and vanished into the cockpit.

“Take-off in five,” Blast Off said, his cargo bay door closing. “Medic, attend to strap nine A, it is two notches too loose. Commander Hot Spot, I suggest you buckle in.”

“I tied that right,” Brawl huffed. He sat heavily, and gripped the cargo netting as Blast Off took to the air. “You're that guy,” he said to Hot Spot. “Red optics. What's with that?”

“ _Brawl,_ ” First Aid said, likewise clinging to the netting, one hand on the strap that still needed to be cinched. He strained to remain upright, to hold his own as Blast Off accelerated.

Brawl gave him a bright look. “I brought you your tiger,” he said. “Cons slagged the place up good, they got out.”

First Aid tightened the strap, and waited the final few seconds for the floor to return to its regular position, and the g-forces to drop away. As soon as he could move without falling, he dropped into the seat between Hot Spot and Brawl. 

“Thankyou,” he said, but he hardly heard his own voice. His optics were drawn to the small area of clear space between the crates and their feet. He shuddered, reaching for Hot Spot's hand. 

“You OK?” Hot Spot said quietly. To their left, Brawl got out his largest gun and began his checks. 

_No_ , First Aid thought, but he couldn't put his finger on why. The hostile grind of Blast Off's energy field, the sensation of being observed, the flat stretch of purple floor, they pulled at something in his databanks, but all he saw was Vortex, all he felt was the warm comfort of his bond mate cradling him in his arms. “I'm fine,” he said. “Just worried.”

“ETA three hundred astroseconds,” Blast Off announced. 

“We'll get 'em back,” Brawl said. 

Hot Spot squeezed First Aid's hand, but said nothing.

* * *

Cosmos fled, and the Rainmakers gave chase. Jazz fell behind; Vortex lost him in the grey mass of Shockwave's army. The Rainmakers were his vanguard, other seekers his wing. Guardian drones plucked straight from the ancient days of Cybertron filled the sky. They were legion, and Vortex fought to see a speck of blue sky between them.

“Jazz, come in,” Smokescreen said. “Jazz, what's your position?”

His comm screamed static, and Cosmos cut in. “Cosmos to Optimus Prime. We've lost contact with Jazz. Repeat, we have lost contact with Jazz.”

The acknowledgement was broken, splintered shards of the Prime's deep voice. 

“We're being jammed,” Cosmos said. 

“Frag,” Smokescreen swore. He looked up at the screen. “They're gaining.”

“Blast Off's coming,” Vortex said, but Blast Off had not yet cleared the continental US, and mile after mile of water stretched away below them. 

The floor tilted, and Vortex seized hold of Mirage. “Smokescreen, hands!” he snapped, and First Aid took over. “Hold this, please, keep him steady. Cosmos, what's going on?”

“New coordinates,” Cosmos said. “I'm coming in to land.”

“Uh.” Smokescreen glanced up. “We're in the middle of the ocean.”

“There's an island.” Cosmos sounded distracted. “They'll meet us there.”

Vortex nodded. A part of him picked up the echo of First Aid's voice, relaying this new intelligence to Blast Off. Their flight path levelled out, and Smokescreen vented loudly. Vortex itched a shard from his shredded mask, energon dribbling into the cracks. 

Dark smoke blossomed behind them. Fire glimmered on the surface of the sea, and still Shockwave's forces advanced. 

“Jazz,” Smokescreen said quietly. He wiped his hands on his thighs, and got a better hold on Mirage's shoulders. “Fraggit, get outta there.”

“Prepare for landing,” Cosmos said. “It's likely to be bumpy.”

Bumpy wasn't the word Vortex would have used. He sprawled over Mirage, pinning the Autobot's frame with his own, holding him tight to the floor. Smokescreen wedged against them both, face twisted and doors shaking. 

When the impact came, Smokescreen braced them, groaning with the pressure. Vortex held Mirage as still as he could, fluids sloshing into his pectoral vent. He closed his filters, drawing air in only through his helm.

“Fragfragfragfragfrag.” Smokescreen grimaced, but Vortex had been in enough crash landings to know that this wasn't one. Green filled the viewscreen, and smeared the cameras. Trees rose up, branches and trunks thwacked the hull. 

“We're good,” Vortex said, as the spaceship came to a shaky halt. “Cosmos?”

“They're right behind us,” Cosmos said, and Vortex tried to see, but the screen was nothing but leaves on all sides. 

Cosmos' ramp extended. Smokescreen backed out, taking Mirage's feet. Vortex moved off him, sneezing slag from his vents, and slid an arm under the alpha's shoulders. As soon as they were out, Cosmos transformed, shrinking as he shifted his mass. 

The Rainmakers were on them, and Vortex had no choice but to leave Mirage on the churned forest floor. He crouched beside Cosmos, aiming his pistol up. Pathetic; he needed his lasers, his glue gun. He needed a rocket launcher, a scatter blaster, ground-to-air missiles. The sky split with the cry of laser fire, the ground smoked and steamed, trees burst into flame.

“Over there!” Smokescreen yelled. He held Mirage in his arms, and jutted his chin to the south. Vortex nudged Cosmos, and they ran. Null rays tore the ground at their feet; Vortex's armour stung, Cosmos yelped. Smokescreen tucked himself behind a thin wall of rock, and set Mirage down again on the filthy organic mulch. 

Vortex slid in beside him, his damaged knee smoking. 

“Where's Cosmos?” Smokescreen looked back. Vortex tucked himself close to the rock, and aimed up. The seekers were coming around, preparing for another strafing run. 

“He was behind me,” Vortex said, but his voice was lost in the wash of a sonic boom. Silverbolt emerged from the massing clouds, guns blazing, wings gleaming in a rare ray of sunlight. Two of the Rainmakers split off, heading straight for him, but Acid Storm maintained his flight path.

Another sonic boom sounded, and another. Vortex shook his head, trying to reboot his audials. When he looked up again, a bulbous green and yellow form was already bursting from the undergrowth on a collision course with Acid Storm. 

Vortex shot into the air, thrusters igniting in a pall of smoke as Mirage's fluids burned from his plating. Acid Storm banked hard, but Cosmos clipped his wing and sent the two of them spinning into the trees. Vortex dived after them, chasing the trail of destruction. He leapt in before he knew who was where. Acid Storm roared, and Cosmos howled. Vortex aimed straight for the seeker's face, and Cosmos must have seen what he was doing, because he began to shriek and flail and kick, as good a distraction as any. 

Vortex crashed into the seeker's shoulders, seizing his head. Dark fingers wrapped tight around a rotor and pulled, and the sensation was stunning, but it wasn't as good as tearing at the flier's cables, pulling them from his throat. Vortex snarled, his gun forgotten. Acid Storm tried to speak, but his mouth spat oil, and his optics blazed. Hydraulic fluid spilled onto the leafy ground, and Vortex shuffled back, leaning up, and plunged both fists through the glass of the tetra jet's cockpit. 

Cosmos went quiet.

* * *

First Aid huddled close to Hot Spot, optics locked on the view from the small round window in the cargo bay door. His spark gave him Vortex, fitting scavenged null rays to his arms while Cosmos retched into the undergrowth. It gave him companionship and caring, and a fierce and predatory need to leap into the fray.

“Prepare to disembark,” Blast Off said. “First Aid, I suggest you ensure yourself and your commander are properly strapped in. De-pressurisation in five.”

Onslaught emerged from the flight deck. “Brawl?”

“Ready,” Brawl confirmed. He stood, armed to the teeth and then some. The contents of the crates hung over him, all save one that gave off a familiar rich and appetising scent. 

Without further announcement, the cargo bay de-pressurised, and the door slid open. Brawl leapt out, a gun in each hand, bellowing a joyful roar. Onslaught followed, and Blast Off turned, bringing the two into view as their thrusters engaged and they were swallowed by the clouds. 

The door closed, and First Aid unclipped himself. He pressed his face to the thick glassy crystal of the window. Where the clouds thinned, he could see specks of people, contrails and laser pulses. It was chaos. 

“Where do we disembark?” Hot Spot asked. 

“You don't,” Blast Off replied. 

“Excuse me?” Hot Spot went to stand. 

First Aid looked up at the nearest camera. “But we have to help,” he said. 

“I'm under orders to keep you out of the line of fire,” Blast Off said. “I believe you are on medical leave.”

“But you said,” First Aid began, and Blast Off talked over him. 

“Never take a statement of fact as a promise,” he said. “Your assistance is required. When I have completed my assignment, we will locate Vortex and extract him.”

First Aid leant his head on the wall, vents working hard. 

“You'll be safer here,” Hot Spot said, but he wasn't looking at Aid, he was looking through the clear crystal of the porthole into the clouds. 

“You'd rather fight,” First Aid said. He pulled a cloth from his arm and rubbed at his visor. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't diagnose the cause. He braced himself as Blast Off made another gradual turn, and began again to accelerate. 

“Where are we going?” Hot Spot said. He beckoned Aid back to his seat. 

“I have a task to complete,” Blast Off said. “I will need additional fuel. You can access my auxiliary fuel intake via the panel to the left of the cargo bay door. I will tell you when I am adequately energised.”

As far as First Aid could tell, Blast Off was already adequately energised, but that feeling of wrongness persisted and he couldn't find the words to express himself. He fetched the energon, and Hot Spot held the cube steady as First Aid fought for the focus to release the appropriate hatch. 

“Are you all right?” Hot Spot whispered, as though Blast Off wouldn't be able to hear him. 

First Aid shook his head. “No, yes, I'm fine. Really.”

“Contact,” Blast Off noted, and his energy field blazed. Something whirred, parts moving that First Aid couldn't see. The movement vibrated through the shuttle, joined by a subsonic grating whine. “Energon!” Blast Off snapped, and First Aid hooked up the intake. Pink liquid sloshed, spilling over First Aid's hands, dripping on the floor. 

The whine grew louder, higher, and the energy released. A shock wave rocked them. 

“What's the situation?” Hot Spot asked. 

Blast Off didn't answer, and First Aid didn't notice. He stared at the energon on the floor; light hit its surface, turning it momentarily silver-white. His spark glowed hot; his mate reached for him. Something shifted in his mind, and he felt that hum of perfect connection only the spark bond could engender. The thought that he was missing something vanished as though it had never been. 

Hot Spot touched his arm. “Aid?”

“Hmm? I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me.” First Aid took his cloth and wiped the spillage from the floor. “All gone now.”

* * *

Explosions shook the ground: bombardment from the air, and the impacts of jets and guardians as they fell to earth one final time. The forest burned, a chemical soup of fog and smoke invaded vents and clogged filters. Vortex saw in infra-red, watched monstrous drones stagger under the weight of their weapons, saw flocks of seekers fresh from Cybertron wheel in formation and dive as prettily as any Air Show in long lost Vos.

He covered Smokescreen, Mirage in the grounder's arms. Cosmos floated unsteadily above, his transformation incomplete. At least he could still shoot. 

They made for the hills. Across the valley Prime's voice echoed, and Shockwave answered. Vortex stamped on his envy; he thrust himself into the spark bond, covering himself with First Aid's gentle calm, dousing the lust for retribution. His new self did not know Shockwave. Only his old self remembered the Detention Centre, the vorns of waiting formless and numb in the dark. His only contact had been Shockwave, his only chronometer those infrequent checks made by his gaoler on his core code and his databanks.

His new self would not care. Onslaught, though, he cared. And Brawl. And Vortex followed their progress in the bland statistics of the gestalt bond. Brawl let through more, occasional flashes of anger and triumph. Onslaught was measured, controlled.

Vortex saw more of Blast Off through the spark bond than he did via his own team link. First Aid was keeping him fuelled, energy for the cannons Vortex had watched destroy whole cities. Expensive toys, but the effect had always been worth the cost. 

Straight ahead a Dinobot roared, and flame turned the infra-red view into a bloom of yellow and orange. Smokescreen stumbled, and Vortex caught him without thinking. 

“I'm good,” Smokescreen said. “I think I hear Ratchet up ahead. We're almost there.”

A shift in atmospheric readings caused Vortex to look up.

“Run,” Vortex ordered. He slapped Smokescreen between the doors for emphasis. “ _Run!_ ” A deep red patch glowed in his vision, blue at the edges, cooling. It fell towards them, invisible through the smoke, little fires in its armour flickers of orange and yellow. 

Vortex leapt, shooting for the sky. He rose in alt, aiming for the gap between the Guardian's massive arm and its body. 

He would have made it, were it not for the bomb. 

The Guardian began to vibrate; its sparkless frame hummed. Vortex pushed himself harder, faster, his thrusters straining, his damaged rotors bending with the force of his acceleration. Below him the Guardian shook once, a powerful convulsion, and tore apart from the inside. A bloom of razor metal and liquid heat rose up to meet him, and Vortex could do nothing to escape.

* * *

The tower exploded in a flash of violet light. First Aid pressed himself to the porthole, Hot Spot at his side. And still the lasers pulsed, pouring down into the Decepticon base, lighting up the ocean from beneath.

The guards were dead, the waves littered with their parts. Hot Spot couldn't help but be grateful they'd always been held in a curious kind of stalemate with the Decepticons before, if they had been capable of this. 

It went on forever, and Hot Spot stared, transfixed. First Aid tensed, his whimper lost in the ongoing roar of Blast Off's cannons. 

“He's hurt,” First Aid gasped, and it was as though the words opened a floodgate. Hot Spot winced, and clutched his chest. First Aid shivered. “We have to go. Blast Off, Vortex is hurt, _we have to go!_ ”

The lasers pulsed once final time; the ocean boiled. The lasting flare of Blast Off's energy field ebbed to a moderate background tingle. Their view shifted as the shuttle moved off, abandoning the wide circle of his former flight path.

“Very well.”

* * *

Vortex lay on his back in the mud. He didn't know how long he'd been there, his chronometer was broken. A wall of scorched metal loomed to his right, some piece of the dead Guardian. Above him, trees swayed burning in the wind. The sky flickered orange and pink.

Fires blossomed, smoke rose, and a fine stinging rain began to fall. Vortex raised his hand to scratch away a splinter from his helm, and it fell immediately back. The impact jolted through his arm, through his chest, his spark. He was heavy, tired. He knew he was leaking, but he didn't know from where. Everywhere, he thought, and couldn't help but laugh. 

He'd almost won. He'd almost proven to them all how safe and virtuous and new he was. The perfect soldier for them to train and mould. His mate could have been his, forever. 

His spark thrummed weakly. The bond was open, but the images were fewer now, the impressions faint like the echo of a dream. 

Someone knelt beside him, and Vortex looked up into optics as blue as glacial ice. 

“Can you hear me?” the newcomer said. He was a flier, and Vortex knew his name, it was on the tip of his glossa. But this wasn't his mate, and the memory slipped from grasp. “We can't move you,” the flier continued. “Not right now. Help is on its way.”

“Reassuring,” Vortex said, and his voice rasped. He coughed, oil bubbling in his throat, spilling over his lips.

The flier smiled. Vortex rebooted his optics, and he was gone. Moved on. Rain pooled in his vents, his head ached. 

His comm beeped, his spark stung. Rain dripped inside his helm, a steady and unwelcome trickle. He reached for his mate and felt only helplessness, desperation. Had he been captured? But no, Vortex would have known. 

He scanned for his team. They all functioned. Beyond that, he couldn't tell.

The trees rustled; planes rushed overhead. Vortex's spark ignited, a hit of warmth and need and pain that cut his vents and left his processors reeling. His bond mate burst from the green, and fell to his knees beside him. Proximity, Vortex thought, but no notifications filled his viewscreen. No warnings, either, no readings from his sensors. The overlay was dead, the text gone. 

“I'm here,” First Aid said, and his hands were warm inside Vortex's chest. 

“I'm broken,” Vortex whispered, but First Aid shook his head. Purple light stained his face, his arms. He touched the casing of Vortex's spark, and the pain ebbed away. 

“I've got you,” he said. “You're going to be all right.”

* * *

Blast Off headed for Onslaught. He had disgorged the Protectobots in the gross stink of the tropical forest. The enemy was routed, their trajectories indicating they fled for the space bridge. For Cybertron, he thought. He would have to follow, eventually. They would bring this war full circle.

He spared a glance for the parts scattered at his feet; some still twitched, some groaned. A Guardian's guiding lights flashed on and off, its paint already grey. Sparkless, it hadn't the decency to know it was dead. 

Onslaught stood with Prime, at the centre of an impact zone. The ground was stripped to rock, the bones of the island scorched. Colourless metal steamed at their feet; a single optic stared blankly up, as though surprised at the gaping hole torn through its owner's chest. 

“I was successful,” Blast Off said. As though that had ever been in any doubt. “As you appear to have been.”

Onslaught nodded, and the Prime spoke. “Good work,” he said, and continued before Blast Off could express his opinion of the Autobot's approval. “Onslaught, we will speak again soon. Excuse me.” He stepped away, heading towards his officious Praxian lieutenant.

Onslaught knelt, and wrapped his hands around Shockwave's inert, plain head. With a snarl, he twisted and wrenched it clean from the corpse. 

“Trophies.” Blast Off sniffed. “How vulgar.” But Onslaught dug his thumbs in a crack in the metal. He grunted, and the plating split. Oil coated his hands, sliming the databanks as he tugged the memory chips free. 

“We've lost enough,” he said, “don't you think?”

Blast Off elected not to reply. “What next?” he asked. 

Onslaught shrugged. “We rest,” he said. “We gather our strength. We plan.” He dropped the broken head, and it hit the ground with a pathetic thud. “Sooner or later, we will go home.”

* * *

Vortex awoke to the smell of disinfectant. There was polish too, Earth-made, and beneath it all the softer, tantalising scents of his bond mate. Good alloys, fresh paint, a trace of energon. 

“This isn't the Ark,” he stated. The bond had not yet opened; strange. Not fully. First Aid abandoned his chair by the door, setting his data pad down. 

“You convinced them,” he said. “We both did. We're home. Primus, forgive me.”

Vortex pushed himself up. He flexed what remained of his rotors, and stretched. “Home?” he said. So this was First Aid's sanctum, so clean and white and scrubbed. He hadn't expected anything less. He smiled; his mask was missing, no doubt First Aid would make him another. “You saved me. Again.” 

First Aid nodded. He drew a shaky vent, and Vortex reached for him, but he stepped swiftly back. “No,” he said. “First, we talk.”

_And then?_ Vortex thought, but an odd note struck in his spark, the harmonics slightly off. “What's wrong?” he said.

“You lied to me.” First Aid pulled open a nearby drawer, and set a small plastic box within Vortex's reach. Then he backed away again. 

Vortex opened it. Inside sat a fractured data crystal. Oh frag no. His smile faltered, and he reached up to his helm. He hadn't noticed at first, but now he knew to look it was obvious: the expansion slot for his databanks was empty, integration had ceased. There was nothing new to discover. 

He shook his head. What he had lost... But it paled in comparison with what he could lose, what he might already have destroyed. “Blast Off gave it to me,” he said. “I couldn't tell you. Not then. How could I?” 

First Aid gave him a steady, penetrating look. “How could you keep it from me?” 

Vortex stared at the crystal, trying to match its fractures, to work out how it could be fixed. “I was going to tell you.” 

“When?”

“When you'd had a chance to get to know me!” Vortex reached out again through the bond, but hit a blank wall. He ran a search of his databanks, then a second, not wanting to believe the results of the first. Twenty-eight point two percent integration. Twenty-eight point two percent of his memories, his life, had filtered through into his databanks before the crystal had been destroyed. He touched the fragments gently with his fingertips. 

“No,” First Aid said, and it was clear that he could access Vortex even if Vortex couldn't currently access him. A vision slipped through, white fingers and a delicate iridescence. “It's broken,” First Aid said. “It can't be repaired. And there's no backup this time.”

“Frag.” Vortex threw himself back on the med-berth, his blades clattering. The box tumbled to the floor. His optics fixed on the ceiling. He didn't ask how it had happened. He could see a mirror of himself in the sliver of thought First Aid had given him. Could see those white fingers exerting a crushing pressure, could feel the guilt, the determination. The fear.

He would have done the same. 

“I'm sorry,” Vortex said. “OK, I really am. I didn't want to hurt you.”

First Aid went to reply, but his optics dimmed, and Vortex felt his spark warm ever so slightly. Whatever the medic was about to say died in a crackle of his vocaliser. 

It presented an opportunity. “I've got less than thirty percent,” Vortex said. He sat up again, wishing his mate would just come to him. “I _can't_ be the person I was before. Please.”

“But you were trying to be,” First Aid said. 

“I lost _everything_. Everything my team wanted from me. Everything they thought was valuable. I thought if I could just let it integrate, let you see it didn't change me, you'd be OK with it.” Vortex shrugged. “I couldn't think of anything else.”

First Aid stooped and gathered the fragments back into the box. He sighed. “I can't trust you,” he said. “But I...” He gestured to his chest. “I can't keep this up.” 

“Then what?” Vortex said. A dozen different tactics presented themselves, each one a manipulation, each one taking what he knew of First Aid and the bond, and twisting things so the medic would have no choice but to do what he wanted. He dismissed them all. 

First Aid set the box aside. He took a cloth and wiped down his hands, then tossed it absently into the waste chute. “We're trapped,” he said at length. “We don't have a choice. You'll come to me, and you'll hold me, and I won't be able to help myself.”

Vortex edged off the berth. “And after that?”

“And then we'll forget,” First Aid said. “Just for a little while... who we are, what we've done to each other.” 

Vortex reached for him, and this time First Aid did not step away. Vortex smiled. “Will that be so bad?” 

First Aid allowed his embrace. His armour heated, the bond spiralled open. He looked up at Vortex, one hand already straying to caress the edge of a rotor. 

He whispered, “Yes.”


End file.
